HAUNTED 
HOUR 


MARGARETW1DDEWER 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUR 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUR 

An  Anthology 


COMPILED  BY 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND   HOWE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2O,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND   HOWE,    INC. 


THE  QUINN   ft  BODEN  COMPANY 
RAHWAY.   N    J. 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 

For  the  use  of  the  copyrighted  material  included  in  this 
volume  permission  has  been  secured  either  from  the  author  or 
his  authorized  publishers.  All  rights  in  these  poems  are  re- 
served by  the  holders  of  the  copyright,  or  the  authorized  pub- 
lishers, as  named  below: 

To  George  H.  Doran  Co.  for  the  poems  of  Joyce  Kilmer  and 

May  Byron. 

To  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  and  Rudyard  Kipling  for  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's "  The  Looking-Glass." 
To  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  for  Helen  Gray  Cone's  "  Blockhouse  on 

the  Hill,"  from  her  A  Chant  of  Love  for  England. 
To  Harper  &  Bros,  for  the  poems  of  Arthur  Guiterman,  Don 

Marquis,   and  Don  C.   Seitz. 

To  Henry  Holt  and  Co.  for  the  poems  of  Francis  Carlin,  Wal- 
ter De  La  Mare,  Louis  Untermeyer,  and  Margaret  Widdemer. 
To  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  for  Anna  Hempstead  Branch's  "  Such 
Are    the    Souls    in    Purgatory"    from    Heart    of    the    Road, 
the  poems  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  Nathan  Haskell   Dole's 
"  Russian  Fantasy,"  Amy  Lowell's  "  Haunted  "  from  Pictures 
of  the  Floating  World,  May  Kendall's  "  A  Legend." 
To  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  the  poems  of  Theodosia  Garrison, 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter,  and  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay. 
To  John  Lane  Co.  for  the  poems  of  Rosamund  Marriott  Watson, 
Winifred  Letts,  A.  E.  Housman's  "  True  Lover,"  Nora  Hop- 
per's   "  Far    Away    Country,"    Marjorie    PickthalPs    "  Mary 
Shepherdess." 
To  the  Macmillan  Co.  for  W.  B.  Yeats'  "  Folk  o'  the  Air,"  and 

John  Masefield's  "  Cape  Horn  Gospel." 
To  Thomas  Bird  Mosher  for  Edith  M.  Thomas's  "The  Passer- 

By  "  from  Flower  from  the  Ashes. 

To  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.  for  "  The  Highwayman,"  by  Alfred 
,    Noyes. 
To    Charles    Scribner's    Sons    for    Josephine    Daskam    Bacon's 

"Little  Dead  Child." 

To  Rose  de  Vaux  Rover  for  Madison  Cawein's  "  Ghosts." 
To  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  for  Grantland  Rice's  "  Ghosts 
of  the  Argonne." 

I  have  to  thank  the  following  authors  for  express  personal 
permission:  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon,  Anna  Hempstead  Branch, 
Francis  Carlin,  Helen  Gray  Cone,  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  Theo- 
dosia Garrison,  Arthur  Guiterman,  Minna  Irving,  Aline  Kilmer, 
Katherine  Tynan  Hinkson,  Winifred  Letts,  Amy  Lowell,  Don 
Marquis,  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell, 
Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall,  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese,  Grantland 
Rice,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  Don 
C.  Seitz,  Clement  Shorter  (for  Dora  Sigerson  Shorter),  Edith  M. 
Thomas,  Louis  Untermeyer,  and  William  Butler  Yeats. 


PREFACE 

THIS  does  not  attempt  to  be  an  inclusive  anthology.  The 
ghostly  poetry  of  the  late  war  alone  would  have  made 
a  book  as  large  as  this;  and  an  inclusive  scheme  would 
have  ended  as  a  six-volume  Encyclopedia  of  Ghostly 
Verse.  I  hope  that  this  may  be  called  for  some  day. 
The  present  book  has  been  held  to  the  conventional  limits 
of  the  type  of  small  anthology  which  may  be  read  without 
weariness  (I  hope)  by  the  exclusion  not  only  of  many 
long  and  dreary  ghost-poems,  but  many  others  which  it 
was  very  hard  to  leave  out. 

I  have  not  considered  as  ghost-poems  anything  but 
poems  which  related  to  the  return  of  spirits  to  earth. 
Thus  "  The  Blessed  Damozel,"  a  poem  of  spirits  in  heaven, 
"  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci,"  whose  heroine  may  be 
a  fairy  or  witch,  and  whose  ghosts  are  presented  in  dream 
only,  do  not  belong  in  this  classification;  nor  do  such 
poems  as  Mathilde  Blind's  lovely  sonnet,  "  The  Dead 
Are  Ever  with  Us,"  class  as  ghost-poems;  for  in  these 
the  dead  are  living  in  ourselves  in  a  half-metaphorical 
sense.  If  a  poem  would  be  a  ghost-story,  in  short,  I  have 
considered  it  a  ghost-poem,  not  otherwise. 

In  this  connection  I  wish  to  thank  Mabel  Cleland  Lud- 
lum  for  her  unwearied  and  intelligent  assistance  with  the 
selection  and  compilation  of  the  book;  and  Aline  Kilmer 
for  help  in  its  revision  and  arrangement. 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER. 


CONTENTS 


The  Far  Away  Country     Nora  Hopper  Chesson 

"  THE    NICHT    ATWEEN    THE    SANCTS    AN'    SOULS 

All-Souls 
All-Saints'   Eve 
A  Dream 
The  Neighbors 
A   Ballad    of    I 

e'en 

The  Forgotten  Soul 
All-Souls'  Night 
Janet's  Tryst  . 
Hallows'    E'en 
On  Kingston  Bridge 
All-Souls'  Night 


Mary  Shepherdess 
The  Little  Ghost 
Two  Brothers 
The  Little  Dead  Child 
The  Child  Alone 
The    Child 
Such  Are   tl 
Purgatory 
The  Open  Door 
My  Laddie's  Hounds 
The  Old  House 


Ballad    of    the 

Sword   . 

The  Looking-Glass 
Drake's  Drum 
The  Grey  Ghost 
Ballad     of 

Bridge  . 
The     Indian 

Ground 


PACE 

.  xiv 


Kathenne    Tynan 

•       3 

Lizelte  Woodivorth  Reese 

•       3 

William  Allingham  . 

•       4 

Theodosia   Garrison 
j  _  1  1  ~.. 

.       6 

iallow- 
Theodosia    Garrison 

•       7 

soul      .     Margaret  Widdemer 

.       8 

:     .       .     Dora  Sigerson  Shorter    . 

•       9 

George  Macdonald  . 

.       10 

,     Winifred  M.  Letts     . 

-     13 

idge     .     Ellen  M.  H.  Cortissoz     . 

.     »4 

:     .       .     Louisa  Humphreys    . 

.     16 

"  ALL  THE  LITTLE  SIGHING  SOULS  " 

ESS        .     Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 

.      21 

it   .        .      Katherine    Tynan      .       .       . 

.      22 

Theodosia    Garrison 

•      24 

Child  .     Josephine  Daskam  Bacon 

•      25 

-,e  .        .     Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  . 

•      27 

Theodosia    Garrison         .       . 

.      28 

Souls  in 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch       « 

.      29 

r    .        .     Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  . 

•      32 

ounds   .      Marguerite   Elizabeth   Easter 

•     33 

Katherine    Tynan      .       .       . 

•     35 

SHADOWY  HEROES 

Buried 

.       .     Ernest  Rhys       .       .       .       •  . 

lass       .     Rudyard  Kipling       .               » 

•     40 

Douglas 

Burying 

be 

Contents 


"  RANK  ON  RANK  OF  GHOSTLY  SOLDIERS  " 


The  Song  of  Soldiers 
By    the   Blockhouse    < 

the  Hill       .       . 
Night  at  Gettysburg 
The  Riders     . 
The  White  Comrade 
Ghosts  of  the  Argonne 
November  Eleventh 


The    Flying   Dutchman 
The   Phantom   Ship 
The  Phantom  Light  of 

the  Baie  des  Chaleurs 
The  Sands  of  Dee 
The  Lake  of  the  Dismal 

Swamp 
The    Flying   Dutchman 

of  the  Tappan  Zee 
The   White    Ships    and 

the   Red 

Featherstone's  Doom 
Sea-Ghosts 
Fog  Wraiths  . 


Cape  Horn  Gospel 
Legend     of     Hamilton 

Tighe    . 

The  Supper  Superstition 
The  Ingoldsby  Penance 
Pompey's  Ghost     . 
The    Ghost      . 
Mary's  Ghost 
The  Superstitious  Ghost 
Dave  Lilly 
Martin 


The  Listeners 
Haunted    Houses    . 
The  Beleaguered  City 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

PAGE 

49 

Helen  Gray  Cone     . 
Don  C.  Seitz       ... 
Katherine  Tynan 
Robert  Haven  S  chauffer 
Grantland  Rice 
Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  . 

49 
5' 
5* 
53 
56 
57 

SEA  GHOSTS 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland  . 
Henry  Wadsiuorth  Longfellow     . 

61 
61 

Arthur  Wentivorth  Hamilton  Eaton 
Charles  Kingsley      .       . 

63 
65 

Thomas  Moore         .       . 

66 

Arthur  Guiterman    .       »    -  . 

68 

Joyce  Kilmer     
Robert  Stephen  Haiaker  . 
May   Byron         
Mildred  Hoioells      .... 

70 
73 
74 
76 

CHEERFUL  SPIRITS 

John    Masefield        .... 

79 

Richard  Harris  Bar  ham 
Thomas  Hood    . 
Richard  Harris  Barham 
Thomas  Hood    . 
Thomas  Hood    . 
Thomas  Hood    . 
Arthur   Guiterman    . 
Joyce  Kilmer 
Joyce  Kilmer 

80 
84 
87 
103 
107 
109 
in 

112 

"4 

HAUNTED   PLACES 

Walter  De  La  Mare 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfello<w     . 
Henry  Wadsioorth  Longfelloio     . 
Bret  Harte  . 

119 

I2O 
122 
124 

Contents 

XI 

PAGE 

A  Legend 

May  Kendall     .... 

.      126 

A  Midnight  Visitor 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen    . 

.     128 

Haunted    .... 

The    Little    Green    Or- 

chard    .... 

Walter  De  La  Mare 

.     131 

Fireflies     .... 

Louise  Driscoll  .... 

•     132 

The  Little  Ghost  . 

Edna  St.   Vincent  Millay 

•      133 

Haunted    .... 

Louis  Untermeyer 

.     134 

Ghosts       .... 

Madison  Caiaein 

•     »35 

The  Three   Ghosts 

Theodosia   Garrison 

.     137 

"  YOU  KNOW  THE  OLD,  WHILE  I  KNOW  THE  NEW  " 

After  Death    . 

Christina  Rossetti     . 

.      141 

The  Passer-By 

Edith  M.  Thomas 

•      141 

At  Home  .... 

Christina  Rossetti 

.     142 

The  Return 

Minna  Irving     .... 

•     »43 

The  Room's  Width 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward 

•      144 

Haunted    .... 

Don  Marquis      .... 

.     144 

"  MY   LOVE  THAT  WAS   SO  TRUE  " 

One  Out-of-Doors 

Sarah  Piatt         .... 

Sailing  Beyond  Seas     . 

Jean  Ingeloio     .... 

•     149 

Betrayal    .... 

The  True  Lover   . 

A.   E.   Housman 

•   *52 

Haunted   .... 

G.    B.   Stuart      .... 

•  153 

The  White  Moth  . 

Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch 

•  154 

The    Ghost      . 

Walter  De  La  Mare 

•   X55 

Luke   Havergal 

Edivin  Arlington  Robinson 

.   156 

The  Highwayman 

Alfred  Noyes     .... 

•   157 

The  Blue  Closet     . 

William  Morris 

.   163 

The  Ghost's  Petition     . 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti     . 

.    166 

He   and   She   . 

Sir  Edivin  Arnold     . 

.   169 

SHAPES  OF  DOOM 

The  Dead  Coach  . 

Katherine  Tynan 

•   '75 

Deid   Folks'   Ferry 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  . 

.   176 

Keith  of  Ravelston 

Sydney  Dobell   .... 

.   178 

The  Fetch 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter    . 

•   179 

The  Banshee  . 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter    . 

.   183 

The  Seven  Whistlers  . 

Alice  E.  Gillington  . 

.   185 

The  Victor      . 

Theodosia  Garrison 

.   187 

Mawgan  of  Melhuach  . 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker  . 

.    188 

The  Mother's  Ghost     . 

Henry    Wads<worth   Longfellow 

.    189 

}The  Dead  Mother 

Robert  Buchanan 

.    192 

Xll 


Contents 


LEGENDS  AND  BALLADS  OF  THE  DEAD 


The  Folk  of  the  Air  . 

The  Reconciliation 

The  Priest's  Brother     . 

The  Ballad  of  Judas 
Iscariot 

The  Eve  of  St.  John   . 

Fair  Margaret's  Mis- 
fortunes 

Sweet  William's  Ghost 

Clerk  Saunders     .       . 

The  Wife  of  Usher's 
Well  .... 

A  Lyke-Wake  Dirge   . 


William  Butler  Yeats 
A.  Margaret  Ramsay 
Dora  Sigerson  Shorter 

Robert  Buchanan 
Walter  Scott 


Anon. 
Anon. 
Anon. 


Anon. 
Anon. 


PAGE 
199 

201 
203 

205 
212 

220 
222 
224 

229 
23I 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUR 


THE  FAR  AWAY  COUNTRY 

NORA   HOPPER  CHESSON 

Far  away's  the  country  where  I  desire  to  go, 

Far  away's  the  country  where  the  blue  roses  grow, 

Far  away's  the  country  and  very  jar  away, 

And  who  would  travel  thither  must  go  'twixt  night  and  day. 

Far  away's  the  country,  and  the  seas  are  wild 
That  you  must  voyage  over,  grown  man  or  chrisom  child, 
O'er  leagues  of  land  and  water  a  weary  way  you'll  go 
Before  you'll  find  the  country  where  the  blue  roses  grow. 

But  O,  and  O,  the  roses  are  very  strange  and  fair, 
You'd  travel  far  to  see  them,  and  one  might  die  to  wear, 
Yet,  far  away's  the  country,  and  perilous  the  sea, 
And  some  may  think  far  fairer  the  red  rose  on  her  tree. 

Far  away's  the  country,  and  strange  the  way  to  fare, 
Far  away's  the  country — O  would  that  I  were  there! 
It's  on  and  on  past  Whinny  Muir  and  over  Brig  o'  Dread. 
And  you  shall  pluck  blue  roses  the  day  that  you  are  dead. 


"  THE  NIGHT  ATWEEN  THE  SANCTS 
AN'  SOULS  " 


ALL-SOULS  :  KATHERINE  TYNAN 

The  door  of  Heaven  is  on  the  latch 
To-night,  and  many  a  one  is  fain 

To  go  home  for  one  night's  watch 
With  his  love  again. 

Oh,  where  the  father  and  mother  sit 

There's  a  drift  of  dead  leaves  at  the  door 

Like  pitter-patter  of  little  feet 
That  come  no  more. 

Their  thoughts  are  in  the  night  and  cold, 
Their  tears  are  heavier  than  the  clay, 

But  who  is  this  at  the  threshold 
So  young  and  gay? 

They  are  come  from  the  land  o'  the  young, 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  weep; 

Words  of  comfort  on  the  tongue, 
And  a  kiss  to  keep. 

They  sit  down  and  they  stay  awhile, 
Kisses  and  comfort  none  shall  lack ; 

At  morn  they  steal  forth  with  a  smile 
And  a  long  look  back. 

ALL-SAINTS'  EVE:  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE 

Oh,  when  the  ghosts  go  by, 

Under  the  empty  trees, 
Here  in  my  house  I  sit  and  cry, 

My  head  upon  my  knees! 
3 


The  Haunted  Hour 

Innumerable,  white, 

Like  mist  they  fijl  the  square ; 
The  bolt  is  drawn,  the  latch  made  tight, 

The  shutter  barred  there. 

There  walks  one  small  and  glad, 
New  to  the  churchyard  clod; 

My  little  lad,  my  little  lad, 
A  single  year  with  God! 

I  sit  and  hide  my  head 

Until  they  all  are  past, 
Under  the  empty  trees  the  dead 

That  go  full  soft  and  fast. 

Up  to  my  chamber  dim, 

Back  to  my  bed  I  plod ; 
Oh,  would  I  were  a  ghost  with  him, 

And  faring  back  to  God! 


A  DREAM  :  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 

I  heard  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night  ; 
I  went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight; 
All  the  dead  that  ever  I  knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two. 

On  they  pass'd  and  on  they  pass'd ; 
Townsfellows  all,  from  first  to  last; 
Born  in  the  moonlight  of  the  lane, 
Quench'd  in  the  heavy  shadow  again. 


A  Dream  5 

Schoolmates,  marching  as  when  they  play'd 
At  soldiers  once — but  now  more  staid; 
Those  were  the  strangest  sight  to  me 
Who  were  drown'd,  I  knew,  in  the  open  sea. 

Straight  and  handsome  folk,  bent  and  weak,  too; 
Some  that  I  loved,  and  gasp'd  to  speak  to; 
Some  but  a  day  in  their  churchyard  bed; 
Some  that  I  had  not  known  were  dead. 

A  long  long  crowd — where  each  seem'd  lonely, 
Yet  of  them  all  there  was  one,  one  only, 
Raised  a  head  or  looked  my  way; 
She  linger'd  a  moment — she  might  not  stay. 

How  long  since  I  saw  that  fair  pale  face! 
Ah!  Mother  dear!  might  I  only  place 
My  head  on  thy  breast,  a  moment  to  rest, 
While  thy  hand  on  my  tearful  cheek  were  press'd ! 

On,  on,  a  moving  bridge  they  made 
Across  the  moon-stream,  from  shade  to  shade, 
Young  and  old,  women  and  men; 
Many  long-forgot,  but  remember'd  then, 

And  first  there  came  a  bitter  laughter; 
A  sound  of  tears  a  moment  after, 
And  then  a  music  so  lofty  and  gay, 
That  every  morning,  day  by  day, 
I  strive  to  recall  it  if  I  may. 


The  Haunted  Hour 


THE  NEIGHBORS  :  THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

At  first  cock-crow 

The  ghosts  must  go 

Back  to  their  quiet  graves  below. 

Against  the  distant  striking  of  the  clock 
I  heard  the  crowing  cock, 
And  I  arose  and  threw  the  window  wide; 
Long,  long  before  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
And  yet  I  knew  they  must  be  passing  soon — 
My  neighbors  who  had  died — 
Back  to  their  narrow  green-roofed  homes  that  wait 
Beyond  the  churchyard  gate. 

I  leaned  far  out  and  waited — all  the  world 
Was  like  a  thing  impearled, 

Mysterious  and  beautiful  and  still: 

The  crooked  road  seemed  one  the  moon  might  lay, 
Our  little  village  slept  in  Quaker  gray, 
And  gray  and  tall  the  poplars  on  the  hill ; 
And  then  far  off  I  heard  the  cock — and  then 
My  neighbors  passed  again. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  white  cloud,  nothing  more, 
Slow  drifting  by  my  door, 

Or  gardened  lilies  swaying  in  the  wind ; 
Then  suddenly  each  separate  face  I  knew, 
The  tender  lovers  drifting  two  and  two, 
Old,  peaceful  folk  long  since  passed  out  of  mind, 
And  little  children — one  whose  hand  held  still 
An  earth-grown  daffodil. 


A  Ballad  of  Hallowe'en  7 

And  here  I  saw  one  pausing  for  a  space 
To  lift  a  wistful  face 

Up  to  a  certain  window  where  there  dreamed 
A  little  brood  left  motherless;  and  there 
One  turned  to  where  the  unploughed  fields  lay  bare; 
And  others  lingering  passed — but  one  there  seemed 
So  over  glad  to  haste,  she  scarce  could  wait 
To  reach  the  churchyard  gate ! 

The  farrier's  little  maid  who  loved  too  well 
And  died — I  may  not  tell 

How  glad  she  seemed.    My  neighbors,  young  and  old, 
With  backward  glances  lingered  as  they  went; 
Only  upon  one  face  was  all  content, 
A  sorrow  comforted — a  peace  untold. 
I  watched  them  through  the  swinging  gate — the  dawn 
Stayed  till  the  last  had  gone. 

A   BALLAD   OF  HALLOWE'EN  :   THEODOSIA 

GARRISON 

All  night  the  wild  wind  on  the  heath 
Whistled  its  song  of  vague  alarms; 

All  night  in  some  mad  dance  of  death 
The  poplars  tossed  their  naked  arms. 

Mignon  Isa  hath  left  her  bed 

And  bared  her  shoulders  to  the  blast; 

The  long  procession  of  the  dead 
Stared  at  her  as  it  passed. 

"  Oh,  there,  methinks,  my  mother  smiled, 
And  there  my  father  walks  forlorn, 

And  there  the  little  nameless  child 
That  was  the  parish  scorn. 


The  Haunted  Hour 

"  And  there  my  olden  comrades  move, 
And  there  my  sister  smiles  apart, 

But  nowhere  is  the  fair,  false  love 
That  bent  and  broke  my  heart. 

"  Oh,  false  in  life,  oh,  false  in  death, 
Wherever  thy  mad  spirit  be, 

Could  it  not  come  this  night,"  she  saith, 
"And  keep  tryst  with  me?" 

Mignon  Isa  has  turned  alone, 
Bitter  the  pain  and  long  the  years; 

The  moonlight  on  the  old  gravestone 
Was  warmer   than   her   tears. 

All  night  the  wild  wind  on  the  heath 
Whistled  its  song  of  vague  alarms; 

All  night  in  some  mad  dance  of  death 
The  poplars  tossed  their  naked  arms. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  SOUL  :  MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

'Twas  I  that  cried  against  the  pane  on  All  Souls'  Night 
(O  pulse  of  my  heart's  life,  how  could  you  never 
hear?) 

You  filled  the  room  I  knew  with  yellow  candlelight 
And  cheered  the  lass  beside  you  when  she  cried  in  fear. 

'Twas  I  that  went  beside  you  in  the  gray  wood-mist 
(O  core  of  my  heart's  heart,  how  could  you  never 
know?) 

You  only  frowned  and  shuddered  as  you  bent  and  kissed 
The  lass  hard  by  you,  handfast,  as  I  used  to  go. 


All-Souls'  Night  g 

'Twos  I  that  stood  to  greet  you  on  the  churchyard  pave 
(O  fire  of  my  heart's  grief,  how  could  you  never  see?) 

You  smiled  in  careless  dreaming  as  you  crossed  my  grave 
And  hummed  a  little  love-song  where  they  buried  me! 


ALL-SOULS'  NIGHT  :  DORA  SIGERSON 

0  mother,  mother,   I  swept  the  hearth,   I  set  his  chair 

and  the  white  board  spread, 

1  prayed  for  his  coming  to  our  kind  Lady  when  Death's 

doors  would  let  out  the  dead; 
A  strange  wind  rattled  the  window-pane,  and  down  the 

lane  a  dog  howled  on, 
I  called  his  name  and  the  candle  flame  burnt  dim,  pressed 

a  hand  the  door-latch  upon. 
Deelish!  Deelish!  my  woe  forever  that  I  could  not  sever 

coward  flesh  from  fear. 
I  called  his  name  and  the  pale  ghost  came;  but  I  was 

afraid  to  meet  my  dear. 

0  mother,  mother,  in  tears  I  checked  the  sad  hours  past 

of  the  year  that's  o'er, 
Till  by  God's  grace  I  might  see  his  face  and  hear  the 

sound  of  his  voice  once  more; 
The  chair  I  set  from  the  cold  and  wet,  he  took  when  he 

came  from  unknown  skies 
Of  the  land  of  the  dead,  on  my  bent  brown  head  I  felt 

the  reproach  of  his  saddened  eyes; 

1  closed  my  lids  on  my  heart's  desire,  crouched  by  the  fire, 

my  voice  was  dumb. 

At  my  clean-swept  hearth  he  had  no  mirth,  and  at  my 
table  he  broke  no  crumb. 


10  The  Haunted  Hour 

Deelish!  Deelish!  my  woe  forever  that  I  could  not  sever 

coward  flesh  from  fear. 
His  chair  put  aside  when  the  young  cock  cried,  and  I 

was  afraid  to  meet  my  dear. 


JANET'S  TRYST  :  GEORGE  MACDONALD 

"  Sweep  up  the  flure,  Janet, 

Put  on  anither  peat. 
It's  a  lown  and  starry  nicht,  Janet, 

And  neither  cold  nor  weet. 

And  it's  open  hoose  we  keep  the  nicht 
For  ony  that  may  be  oot; 

It's  the  nicht  atween  the  Sancts  an'  Souls 
Whan  the  bodiless  gang  aboot. 

Set  the  chairs  back  to  the  wall,  Janet, 
Mak'  ready  for  quaiet  fowk, 

Hae  a'  thing  as  clean  as  a  windin'-sheet— 
They  comena  ilka  ook. 

There's  a  spale  upo'  the  flure,  Janet, 
And  there's  a  rowan  berry. 

Sweep  them  into  the  fire,  Janet, — 
They'll  be  welcomer  than  merry. 

Syne  set  open  the  door,  Janet, — 
Wide  open  for  wha  kens  wha: 

As  ye  come  to  your  bed,  Janet, 
Set  it  open  to  the  wa'." 


Janet's  Tryst  II 

She  set  the  chairs  back  to  the  wa', 

But  ane  made  of  the  birk, 
She  swept  the  flure,  but  left  ane  spale, 

A  long  spale  o'  the  aik. 

The  nicht  was  lown,  and  the  stars  sat  still 

A-glintin'  doon  the  sky: 
And  the  sauls  crept  oot  o'  their  mooly  graves, 

A'  dank  wi'  lyin'  by. 

When  midnight  came  the  mither  rase — 

She  wad  gae  see  an'  hear. 
Back  she  cam'  wi'  a  glowrin'  face, 

An'  sloomin'  wi'  verra  fear. 

"There's  ane  o'  them  sittin'  afore  the  fire! 

Janet,  gae  na  to  see; 
Ye  left  a  chair  afore  the  fire, 

Whaur  I  tauld  ye  nae  chair  sud  be." 

Janet  she  smiled  in  her  mither's  face: 

She  had  brunt  the  roddin  reid: 
And  she  left  aneath  the  birken  chair 

The  spale  frae  a  coffin  lid. 

She  rase  and  she  gaed  but  the  hoose, 

Aye  steekin'  door  and  door, 
Three  hours  gaed  by  ere  her  mother  heard 

Her  fit  upo'  the  flure. 

But  whan  the  grey  cock  crew  she  heard 

The  soun'  o'  shoeless  feet, 
Whan  the  red  cock  crew  she  heard  the  door 

An'  a  sough  o'  wind  an'  weet 


12  The  Haunted  Hour 

An'  Janet  cam'  back  wi*  a  wan  face, 

But  never  a  word  said  she; 
No  man  ever  heard  her  voice  lood  oot — 

It  cam'  like  frae  ower  the  sea. 

And  no  man  ever  heard  her  lauch, 

Nor  yet  say  alas  nor  wae; 
But  a  smile  aye  glimmert  on  her  wan  face 

Like  the  moonlicht  on  the  sea. 

And  ilka  nicht  'twixt  the  Sancts  an'  Souls 

Wide  open  she  set  the  door; 
And  she  mendit  the  fire,  and  she  left  ae  chair 

And  that  spale  upo'  the  flure. 

And  at  midnicht  she  gaed  but  the  hoose, 

Aye  steekin'  door  and  door. 
Whan  the  red  cock  crew  she  cam'  ben  the  hoose, 

Aye  wanner  than  before. 

Wanner  her  face  and  sweeter  her  smile, 
Till   the  seventh   All-Souls   Eve 

Her  mither  she  heard  the  shoeless  feet, 
Says  "  She's  comin',  I  believe." 

But  she  camna  ben,  an'  her  mither  lay ; 

For  fear  she  cudna  stan', 
But  up  she  rase  an'  ben  she  gaed 

Whan  the  gowden  cock  hed  crawn. 

And  Janet  sat  upo'  the  chair, 

White  as  the  day  did  daw, 
Her  smile  was  as  sunlight  left  on  the  sea 

Whan  the  sun  has  gane  awa. 


Hallows'  E'en  13 


HALLOWS'  E'EN  :    WINIFRED  M.  LETTS 

The  girls  are  laughing  with  the  boys,  and  gaming  by  the 
fire, 

They're  wishful,  every  one  of  them,  to  see  her  heart's 
desire, 

'Twas  Thesie  cut  the  barnbrack  and  found  the  ring  in- 
side, 

Before  next  Hallows'  E'en  has  dawned  herself  will  be 
a  bride. 

But  little  Mollie  stands  alone  outside  the  cabin  door, 

And  breaks  her  heart  for  one  the  waves  threw  dead 
upon  the  shore. 

'Twas  Katie's  nut  lepped  from  the. hearth,  and  left  poor 

Pat's  alone 
But  Ellen's  stayed  by  Christy  Byrne's  upon  the  wide 

hearthstone. 

An'  all  the  while  the  childher  bobbed  for  apples  set  afloat, 
The  old  men  smoked  their  pipes  and  talked  about  the 

foundered  boat. 
But  Mollie  walked  upon  the  cliff,  and  never  feared  the 

rain : 
She  called  the  name  of  one  she  loved  and  bid  him  come 

again. 

Young  Peter  pulled  the  cabbage-stump  to  win  a  wealthy 
wife, 

Rosanna  threw  the  apple-peel  to  know  who'd  share  her 
life; 

And  Lizzie  had  a  looking-glass  she'd  hid  in  some  dark 
place 

To  try  if  there,  foreninst  her  own,  she'd  see  her  com- 
rade's face. 


14  The  Haunted  Hour 

But  Mollie  walked  along  the  quay  where  Terry's  feet  had 

trod, 
And  sobbed   her  grief  out  in  the  night,  with  no  one 

near  but  God. 

She  heard  the  laughter  from  the  house,  she  heard  the 

riddle  played; 
She  called  her  dead  love  to  her  side — why  should  she  be 

afraid  ? 
She  took  his  cold  hands  in  her  own,  she  had  no  thought 

of  dread, 
And  not  a  star  looked  out  to  watch  the  living  kiss  the 

dead. 

The  lads  are  gaming  with  the  girls,  and  laughing  by  the 

fire. 
But  Mollie  in  the  cold,  dark  night,  has  found  her  heart's 

desire. 


ON  KINGSTON  BRIDGE  :  ELLEN  M.  H.  CORTISSOZ 

(On  All  Souls'  Night  the  dead  walk  on  Kingston 
Bridge. — Old  Legend.) 

On  Kingston  Bridge  the  starlight  shone 
Through  hurrying  mists  in  shrouded  glow; 

The  boding  night-wind  made  its  moan, 
The  mighty  river  crept  below. 
'Twas  All  Souls'  Night,  and  to  and  fro 

The  quick  and  dead  together  walked, 

The  quick  and  dead  together  talked, 
On  Kingston  Bridge. 


On  Kingston  Bridge  15 

Two  met  who  had  not  met  for  years; 
Once  was  their  hate  too  deep  for  fears: 
One  drew  his  rapier  as  he  came, 
Upleapt  his  anger  like  a  flame. 
With  clash  of  mail  he  faced  his  foe, 
And  bade  him  stand  and  meet  him  so. 
He  felt  a  graveyard  wind  go  by 
Cold,  cold  as  was  his  enemy. 

A  stony  horror  held  him  fast. 
The  Dead  looked  with  a  ghastly  stare, 

And  sighed  "  I  know  thee  not,"  and  passed 
Like  to  the  mist,  and  left  him  there 
On  Kingston  Bridge. 

'Twas  All  Souls'  Night,  and  to  and  fro 
The  quick  and  dead  together  walked, 
The  quick  and  dead  together  talked, 
On  Kingston  Bridge. 

Two  met  who  had  not  met  for  years: 
With  grief  that  was  too  deep  for  tears 

They  parted  last. 

He  clasped  her  hand,  and  in  her  eyes 
He  sought  Love's  rapturous  surprise. 
"  Oh,  Sweet!  "  he  cried,  "  hast  thou  come  back 
To  say  thou  lov'st  thy  lover  still  ?  " 
— Into  the  starlight,  pale  and  cold, 
She  gazed  afar — her  hand  was  chill : 
"  Dost  thou  remember  how  we  kept 
Our  ardent  vigils? — how  we  kissed? — 
Take  thou  these  kisses  as  of  old !  " 

An  icy  wind  about  him  swept; 
"  I  know  thee  not,"  she  sighed,  and  passed 
Into  the  dim  and  shrouding  mist 

On  Kingston  Bridge. 


1 6  The  Haunted  Hour 

'Twas  All  Souls'  Night,  and  to  and  fro 
The  quick  and  dead  together  walked, 
The  quick  and  dead  together  talked, 
On  Kingston    Bridge. 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT  :  LOUISA  HUMPHREYS 

Canice  the  priest  went  out  on  the  Night  of  Souls; 

"  Stay,  oh  stay,"  said  the  woman  who  served  his  board; 
"  Stay,  for  the  path  is  strait  with  pits  and  holes, 

And  the  night  is  dark  and  the  way  is  lone  abroad ; 
Stay  within  because  it  is  lone,  at  least." 
"  Nay,  it  will  not  be  lone,"  said  Canice  the  priest. 

Dim  without,  and  a  dim,  low-sweeping  sky; 

A  scent  of  earth  in  the  night,  of  opened  mould ; 
A  listening  pause  in  the  night — and  a  breath  passed  by — 

And  its  touch  was  cold,  was  cold  as  the  graves  are  cold. 
Canice  went  on  to  the  waste  where  no  men  be; 
"  Nay,  I  will  not  be  lone  to-night,"  said  he. 

Shades  that  flit,  besides  the  shades  of  the  night; 

Rustling  sobs  besides  the  sobs  of  the  wind; 
Steps  of  feet  that  pace  with  his  on  the  right, 

Steps  that  pace  on  the  left,  and  steps  behind. 
"Nay,  no  fear  that  I  shall  be  lone,  at  least! 
Lo,  there  are  throngs  abroad,"  said  Canice  the  priest. 

Deathly  hands  that  pluck  at  his  cassock's  hem; 

Sighings  of  earthly  breath  that  smite  his  cheek; 
Canice  the  priest  swings  on,  atune  with  them, 

Hears  the  throbbings  of  pain,  and  hears  them  speak ; 
Hears  the  word  they  utter,  and  answers  "Yea! 
Yea,  poor  souls,  for  I  heed;  I  pray,  I  pray." 


All  Souls'  Night  17 

Lo,  a  gleam  of  gray,  and  the  dark  is  done; 

Hark,  a  bird  that  trills  a  song  of  the  light. 
Canice  hies  him  home  by  the  shine  of  the  sun. 

What  to-day  of  those  pallid  wraiths  of  the  night? 
What  of  the  woeful  notes  that  had  wailed  and  fled? 
"  Marie,  ora  pro  illis!  "  Canice  said. 


ALL  THE  LITTLE  SIGHING  SOULS  " 


MARY  SHEPHERDESS  :  MARJORIE  L.  c.  PICKTHALL 

When  the  heron's  in  the  high  wood  and  the  last  long 

furrow's  sown 
With  the  herded   cloud   before  her  and   her  sea-sweet 

raiment   blown 
Comes  Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess,  a-seeking  for  her  own. 

Saint  James  he  calls  the  righteous  folk,  Saint  John  he 

calls  the  kind, 

Saint  Peter  seeks  the  valiant  men  all  to  loose  or  bind, 
But  Mary  seeks  the  little  souls  that  are  so  hard  to  find. 

All  the  little  sighing  souls  born  of  dust's  despair, 
They  who  fed  on  bitter  bread  when  the  world  was  bare, 
Frighted  of  the  glory  gates  and  the  starry  stair. 

All  about  the  windy  down,  housing  in  the  ling, 
Underneath  the  alder-bough  linnet-light  they  cling, 
Frighted  of  the  shining  house  where  the  martyrs  sing. 

Crying  in  the  ivy-bloom,  fingering  at  the  pane, 
Grieving  in  the  hollow  dark,  lone  along  the  lane, 
Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess  gathers  them  again. 

And  O  the  wandering  women  know,  in  workhouse  and 

in  shed, 
They  dream  on  Mary  Shepherdess  with  doves  about  her 

head, 
And  pleasant  posies  in  her  hand,  and  sorrow  comforted. 

21 


22  The  Haunted  Hour 

Saying:  there's  my  little  lass,  faring  fine  and  free, 
There's  the  little  lad  I  laid  by  the  holly  tree, 
Dreaming:    There's  my  nameless  bairn  laughing  at  her 
knee. 

When  the  bracken-harvest's  gathered  and  the  frost  is  on 

the  loam 
When  the  dream  goes  out  in  silence  and  the  ebb  runs 

out  in  foam, 
Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess,  she  leads  the  lost  lambs  home. 

If  I  had  a  little  maid  to  turn  my  tears  away, 

If  I  had  a  little  lad  to  lead  me  when  I'm  gray, 

All  to  Mary  Shepherdess  they'd  fold  their  hands  and  pray. 


THE  LITTLE  GHOST  :  KATHERINE  TYNAN 

The  stars  began  to  peep 

Gone  was  the  bitter  day, 
She  heard  the  milky  ewes 

Bleat  to  their  lambs  astray. 
Her  heart  cried   for  her  lamb 

Lapped  cold  in  the  churchyard  sod, 
She  could  not  think  on  the  happy  children 

At  play  with  the  Lamb  of  God. 

She  heard  the  calling  ewes 

And  the  lambs  answer  alas! 
She  heard  her  heart's  blood  drip  in  the  night, 

As  the  ewes'  milk  on  the  grass. 
Her  tears  that  burnt  like  fire 

So  bitter  and   slow   ran   down 
She  could  not  think  on  the  new-washed  children 

Playing  by  Mary's  gown. 


The  Little  Ghost  23 

Oh,  who  is  this  comes  in 

Over  her  threshold  stone? 
And  why  is  the  old  dog  wild  with  joy 

Who  all  day  long  made  moan? 
This  fair  little  radiant  ghost, 

Her  one  little  son  of  seven, 
New  'scaped  from  the  band  of  merry  children 

In  the  nurseries  of  Heaven. 

He  was  all  clad  in  white 

Without  a  speck  or  stain  ; 
His  curls  had  a  ring  of  light, 

That  rose  and  fell  again. 
"  Now  come  with  me,  my  own  mother, 

And  you  shall  have  great  ease, 
For  you  shall  see  the  lost  children 

Gathered  at  Mary's  knees." 

Oh,  lightly  sprang  she  up 

Nor  waked  her  sleeping  man, 
And  hand  in  hand  with  the  little  ghost 

Through  the  dark  night  she  ran. 
She  is  gone  swift  as  a  fawn, 

As  a  bird  homes  to  its  nest, 
She  has  seen  them  lie,  the  sleepy  children, 

'Twixt  Mary's  arm  and  breast. 

At  morning  she  came  back; 

Her  eyes  were  strange  to  see. 
She  will  not  fear  the  long  journey, 

However  long  it  be. 
As  she  goes  in  and  out 

She  sings  unto  hersel'; 
For  she  has  seen  the  mother's  children 

And  knows  that  it  is  well. 


24  The  Haunted  Hour 


TWO  BROTHERS  :    THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

The  dead  son's  mother  sat  and  wept 
And  her  live  son  plucked  at  her  gown, 

"  Oh,  mother,  long  is  the  watch  we've  kept!  " 
But  she  beat  the  small  hands  down. 


The  little  live  son  he  clung  to  her  knee — 
And  frightened  his  eyes  and  dim — 

"  Have  ye  never,  my  mother,  a  word  for  me?  " 
But  she  turned  her  face  from  him, 

Saying,  "  Oh  and  alack,  mine  own  dead  son, 
Could  I  know  but  the  path  aright, 

How  fast  and  how  fast  my  feet  would  run 
Through  the  way  o'  Death  to-night ! " 

Saying,  "  Oh  and  alack,  for  thy  empty  place 
And  the  ache  in  my  heart  to  hide!  " 

The  little  live  son  has  touched  her  face, 
But  she  thrust  his  hands  aside. 

The  mother  hath  laid  her  down  and  wept 
In  the  midnight's  chill  and  gloom; 

In  the  hour  ere  dawn  while  the  mother  slept 
The  ghost  came  in  the  room. 

And  the  little  live  son  hath  called  his  name 

Or  ever  he  passed  the  door, 
"  Oh,  brother,  brother,  'tis  well  ye  came, 

For  our  mother's  grief  is  sore! 


The  Little  Dead  Child  25 

"Oh,  brother,  brother,  she  weeps  for  thee 

As  a  rain  that  beats  all  day, 
But  me  she  pushes  from  off  her  knee 

And  turneth  her  eyes  away." 

And  the  little  dead  son  he  spake  again, 

"  My  brother,  the  dead  have  grace 
Though  they  lay  them  low  from  the  sight  of  men 

With  a  white  cloth  on  their  face. 

"  Oh,  brother,  the  dead  have  gifts  of  love, 

Though  lonely  and  low  they  lie, 
By  my  mother's  love  do  I  speak  and  move 

And  may  not  wholly  die." 

The  little  live  son  he  sighed  apart, 

"  Oh,  brother,  ye  live,"  quoth  he, 
"  In  my  mother's  grief  and  my  mother's  heart 

And  my  mother's  memory. 

"  And  vain  for  thee  is  my  mother's  cry," 
The  little  live  son  hath  said, 

"  For  ye  are  loved  and  ye  may  not  die- 
It  is  only  I  who  am  dead !  " 


THE  LITTLE  DEAD  CHILD  :  JOSEPHINE  DASKAM 

BACON 

When  all  but  her  were  sleeping  fast, 
And  the  night  was  nearly  fled, 

The  little  dead  child  came  up  the  stair 
And  stood  by  his  mother's  bed. 


26  The  Haunted  Hour 

11  Ah,  God !  "  she  cried,  "  the  nights  are  three, 

And  yet  I  have  not  slept!  " 
The  little  dead  child  he  sat  him  down, 

And  sank  his  head  and  wept.. 

"And  is  it  thou,  my  little  dead  child, 
Come  in  from  out  the  storm? 

Ah,  lie  thou  back  against  my  heart, 
And  I  will  keep  thee  warm !  " 

That  is   long   ago,   mother, 

Long   and   long  ago! 
Shall  I  grow  warm  who  lay  three  nights 

Beneath    the   winter  snow? 

"  Hast  thou  not  heard  the  old  nurse  weep? 

She   sings   to   us   no   more; 
And   thy   brothers   leave   the  broken   toys 

And  whisper  in  the  door." 

That  is  far  away,  mother, 

Far  and   far   away! 
Above  my   head  the  stone  is  white, 

My   hands  forget   to   play. 

11  What  wilt  thou  then,  my  little  dead  child, 
Since  here  thou  may'st  not  lie? 

Ah,  me!  that  snow  should  be  thy  sheet, 
And  winds  thy  lullaby!  " 

Down  within  my  grave,  mother, 

I  heard,  I  know  not  how, 
"Go  up  to  God,  thou  little  child, 

Go  up  and  meet  him  now!" 


The  Child  Alone  27 

That  is  far  to  fare,  mother, 

Far  and  far  to  fare! 
I  come  for  thee  to  carry  me 

The  way  from  here  to  there. 

"  Oh,  hold  thy  peace,  my  little  dead  child. 

My  heart  will  break  in  me! 
Thy  way  to  God  thou  must  go  alone, 

I  may  not  carry  thee!  " 

The  cock  crew  out  the  early  dawn 

Ere  she  could  stay  her  moan; 
She  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  child, 

Upon  his  way  alone. 


THE  CHILD  ALONE  :  ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT 

WATSON 

They  say  the  night  has  fallen  chill — 
But  I  know  naught  of  mist  or  rain, 

Only  of  two  small  hands  that  still 
Beat  on  the  darkness  all  in  vain. 

They  say  the  wind  blows  high  and  wild 
Down  the  long  valleys  to  the  sea; 

But  I  can  only  hear  the  child, 

Who  weeps  in  darkness,  wanting  me. 

Beyond  the  footfalls  in  the  street, 
Above  the  voices  of  the  bay, 

I  hear  the  sound  of  little  feet, 
Two  little  stumbling  feet  astray. 


28  The  Haunted  Hour 

Oh,  loud  the  autumn  wind  makes  moan, 
The  desolate  wind  about  my  door, 

And  a  little  child  goes  all  alone 
Who  never  was  alone  before. 


THE  CHILD  :  THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

I  heard  her  crying  in  the  night, — 
So  long,  so  long  I  lay  awake, 
Watching  the  moonlight  ebb  and  break 

Against  the  sill  like  waves  of  light. 

I  tried  to  close  my  eyes  nor  heed 
And  lie  quite  still — but  oh,  again 
The  little  voice  of  fright  and  pain 

Sobbed  in  the  darkness  of  her  need. 

Strange  shadows  led  me  down  the  stair; 

Creaked  as  I  went  the  hollow  floor; 

I  drew  the  bolt  and  flung  the  door 
Wide,  wide,  and  softly  called  her  there. 

Ah  me,  as  happy  mothers  call 

Through  the  tender  twilights  to  the  gay, 

Glad  truant  making  holiday 
Too  long  before  the  even/all. 

The  garden  odors  drifted  through, 
The  scent  of  earth  and  box  and  rose, 
And   then,   as  silently  as  those, 

A  little  wistful  child  I  knew. 


Such  Are  the  Souls  in  Purgatory  29 

So  small,  so  frightened  and  so  cold, 
Ah,  close,  so  close  I  gathered  her 
Within  my  arms,  she  might  not  stir, 

And  crooned  and  kissed  her  in  their  hold. 

As  might  a  happy  mother,  when, 

Aghast  for  some  quaint,  trifling  thing, 
One  runs  to  her  for  comforting, 

And  smiles  within  her  arms  again. 

All  night  upon  my  heart  she  lay, 

All  night  I  held  her  warm  and  close, 
Until  the  morning  wind  arose 

And  called  across  the  world  for  day. 

The  garden  odors  drifted  through 

The  open  door;  as  still  as  they 

She  passed  into  the  awful  day, 
A  little,  wistful  child   I  knew. 

Think  you  for  this  God's  smile  may  dim 

(His  are  so  many,  many  dead) 

Seeing   that   I   but   comforted 
A  child — and  sent  her  back  to  Him! 


SUCH  ARE  THE  SOULS  IN  PURGATORY: 

ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 

Three  days  she  wandered  forth  from  me, 

Then  sought  me  as  of  old. 
"  I  did  not  know  how  dark  'twould  be," 

She  sobbed,  "nor  yet  how  cold. 


3O  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  And  it  is  chill  for  me  to  fare 
Who  have  not  long  been  dead. 

If  thou  wouldst  give  away  thy  cloak 
I  might  go  comforted." 

I  would  have  soothed  her  on  my  breast 
But  that  she  needs  must  go. 

The  dead  must  journey  without  rest 
Whether  they  will  or  no. 

But  I  had  kept  for  love  of  her 
The  cloak  she  wore,  the  shoes, 

And  every  day  I  touched  the  things 
She  had  been  wont  to  use. 

All  night  the  dead  must  hurry  on, 

They  may  not  ever  sleep. 
And  so  I  gave  away  her  cloak 

That  I  was  fain  to  keep. 

The  second  time  she  sought  me  out 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  need. 

"  If  thou  wouldst  give  away  my  shoes 
Perchance  I  would  not  bleed." 

I  cried  to  her  aloud,  "  My  child, 
They  are  all  I  have  to  keep, 

To  lay  my  hand  upon  and  touch 
At  night  before  I  sleep. 

"  The  earth  shall  keep  the  body  I  bore, 
And  Heaven  thy  soul.    I  may  not  choose. 

Let  be — I  ask  a  little  thing, 
That  I  should  keep  thy  shoes. 


Such  Are  the  Souls  in  Purgatory  31 

"  But  I  will  give  away  my  own. 

Lord,  Lord,  wilt  Thou  not  see? 
Let  Thou  her  road  to  Paradise 

This  way  be  eased  by  me." 

All  night  alone  by  brier  and  stone 

I  ran  that  road  unshod, 
So  I  might  know  instead  of  her 

The  pains  that  lead  to  God. 

When  next  she  came  for  a  brief  space 

She  tarried  at  my  side, 
So  happy  was  she  in  that  place, 

So  glad  that  she  had  died. 

"  The  last  night  that  I  roamed,"  she  said, 

"  Some  one  had  gone  before. 
I  followed  where  those  feet  had  led, 

And  found  it  rough  no  more. 

"  And  then  I  came  to  a  good  place, 

So  kind,  so  dear  are  they 
I  may  not  come  again,"  and  so 

She  smiled  and  went  away. 

Dear  Christ,  Who  died  to  save  us  all, 
Who  trod  the  ways  so  cold  and  wild, 

The  love  of  Mary  in  thy  heart 
Did  let  me  ease  my  child. 

She  may  not  leave  the  place  of  bliss, 
I  may  not  touch  her  hands  and  hair, 

But  every  night  I  touch  and  kiss 
The  shoes  she  used  to  wear. 


32  The  Haunted  Hour 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  :  ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON 

O  listen  for  her  step  when  the  fire  burns  hollow 
When  the  low  fire  whispers  and  the  white  ash  sinks, 

When  all  about  the  chamber  shadows  troop  and  follow 
As  drowsier  yet  the  hearth's  red  watchlight  blinks. 

While  bare  black  night  through  empty  casements  staring 
Waits  to  storm  the  wainscot  till  the  fire  lies  dead, 

Fast  along  the  snowbound  waste  little  feet  are  faring — 
Hush  and  listen — listen — but  never  turn  your  head. 

Leave  the  door  upon  the  latch — she  could  never  reach  it — 
You  would  hear  her  crying,  crying  there  till  break  of 
day, 

Out  on  the  cold  moor  'mid  the  snows  that  bleach  it, 
Weeping  as  once  in  the  long  years  past  away. 

Lean  deeper  in  the  settle-corner  lest  she  find  you — 
Find  and  grow  fearsome,  too  afraid  to  stay: 

Do  you  hear  the  hinge  of  the  oaken  press  behind  you? 
There  all  her  toys  were  kept,  there  she  used  to  play. 

Do  you  hear  the  light,  light  foot,  the  faint  sweet  laughter 
Happy  stir  and  murmur  of  a  child  that  plays: 

Slowly  the  darkness  creeps  up  from  floor  to  rafter, 
Slowly  the  fallen  snow  covers  all  the  ways. 

Falls  as  it  once  fell  on  a  tide  past  over, 

Golden  the  hearth  glowed  then,  bright  the  windows 

shone ; 
And  still,  she  comes  through  the  sullen  drifts  above  her 

Home  to  the  cold  hearth  though  all  the  lights  are  gone. 


My  Laddie's  Hounds  33 

Far  or  near  no  one  knew — none  would  now  remember 
Where  she  wandered  no  one  knew — none  will  ever 

know  ; 
Somewhere  Spring  must  give  her  flowers,  somewhere  white 

December 

Calls  her  from  the  moorland  to  her  playthings  through 
the  snow. 


MY  LADDIE'S  HOUNDS  :  MARGUERITE  ELIZABETH 

EASTER 

They  are  my  laddie's  hounds 
That  rin  the  wood  at  brak  o'  day. 
Wha  is  it  taks  them  hence?    Can  ony  say 

Wha  is  it  taks  my  laddie's  hounds 
At  brak  o'  day? 

They  cleek  aff  thegither, 
And  then  fa'  back,  wi'  room  atween 
For  ane  to  walk;  sae  aften,  I  hae  seen 

The  baith  cleek  aff  thegither 
Wi'  ane  atween! 

And  when  toward  the  pines 
Up  yonder  lane  they  loup  alang 
I  see  ae  laddie  brent  and  strang, 

I  see  ae  laddie  loup  alang 
Toward  the  pines. 

I  follow  them  in  mind 
Ilk  time ;  right  weel  I  ken  the  way, — 
They  thrid  the  wood,  an'  speel  the  staney  brae 

An'  skir  the  field;  I  follow  them, 
I  ken  the  way. 


34  The  Haunted  Hour 

They  daddle  at  the  creek, 
Whaur  down  fra  aff  the  reachin'-logs 
I  stoup,  wi'  my  dear  laddie,  and  the  dogs, 

An*  drink  o'  springs  that  spait  the  creek 
Maist  to  the  logs. 

He's  but  a  bairn,  atho' 
He  hunts  the  mountain's  lonely  bree, 
His  doggies'  ears  abune  their  brows  wi'  glee 

He  ties;  he's  but  a  bairn,  atho' 
He  hunts  the  bree. 

Fu'  length  they  a'  stretch  out 
Upon  ae  bink  that  green  trees  hap 
In  shade.    He  whusslits  saft;  the  beagles  nap 

Wi'  een  half  shut,  a  stretchin'  out 
Whaur  green  trees  hap. 

And   noo  he  fades  awa' 
Frae  'tween  the  twa — into  the  blue. 
My  sight  gats  blind ;  gude  Lord,  it  isna  true 

That  he  has  gane  for  aye  awa 
Into  the  blue! 

They  are  my  laddie's  hounds 
That  mak  the  hill  at  fa'  o'  day 
Wi'  dowie  heads  hung  laigh;  can  ony  say 
is  it  hunts  my  laddie's  hounds 
Till  fa   o   day? 


The  Old  House  35 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  :  KATHERINE  TYNAN 

The  boys  who  used  to  come  and  go 
In  the  grey  kindly  house  are  flown. 

They  have  taken  the  way  the  young  feet  know; 
Not  alone,  not  alone ! 

Thronged  is  the  road  the  young  feet  go. 

Yet  in  the  quiet  evening  hour 

What  comes,  oh,  lighter  than  a  bird? 

Touches  her  cheek,  soft  as  a  flower. 
What  moved,  what  stirred? 

What  was  the  joyous  whisper  heard? 

What  flitted  in  the  corridor 

Like  a  boy's  shape  so  dear  and  slight? 
What  was  the  laughter  ran  before? 

Delicate,   light, 
Like  harps  the  wind  plays  out  of  sight. 

The  boys  who  used  to  go  and  come 
In  the  grey  house  are  come  again; 

Of  the  grey  house  and  firelit  room 
They  are  fain,  they  are  fain: 

They  have  come  home  from  the  night  and  rain. 


SHADOWY  HEROES 


BALLAD    OF   THE    BURIED    SWORD  :  ERNEST 

RHYS 

In  a  winter's  dream,  on  Gamellyn  moor, 
I  found  the  lost  grave  of  Lord  Glyndwr. 

I  followed  three  shadows  against  the  moon, 

That  marched  while  the  thin  reed  whistled  the  tune, 

Three  swordsmen  they  were  out  of  Harry's  wars, 
That  made  a  Welsh  song  of  their  Norman  scars, 

But  they  sang  no  longer  of  Agincourt, 

When  they  came  to  a  grave,  for  there  lay  Glyndwr. 

Said  the  one,  "  My  sword,  th'art  rust,  my  dear, 
I  but  brought  thee  home  to  break  thee  here." 

And  the  second,  "  Ay,  here  is  the  narrow  home, 
To  which  our  tired  hearts  are  come !  " 

And  the  third,  "  We  are  all  that  are  left,  Glyndwr, 
To  guard  thee  now  on  Gamellyn  moor." 

Straightway  I  saw  the  dead  forth-stand, 
His  good  sword  bright  in  his  right  hand, 

And  the  marsh-reeds  with  a  whistling  sound, 

To  a  thousand  gray  swordsmen  were  turned  around. 

The  moon  did  shake  in  the  south  to  see, 
The  dead  man  stand  with  his  soldiery. 
39 


40  The  Haunted  Hour 

But  the  brighter  his  sword,  the  grave  before, 
Turn'd  its  gate  of  death  to  a  radiant  door. 

Therein  the  thousand,  before  their  Lord, 
Marched  at  the  summons  of  his  bright  sword. 

Then  the  night  grew  strange,  the  blood  left  my  brain, 
And  I  stood  alone  by  the  grave  again. 

But  brightly  his  sword  still  before  me  shone, 
Across  the  dark  moor  as  I  passed  alone. 

And  still  it  shines,  a  silver  flame, 

Across  the  dark  night  of  the  Cymraec  shame. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  :  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

The  Queen  was  in  her  chamber,  and  she  was  middling 

old, 

Her  petticoat  was  of  satin,  and  her  stomacher  was  gold. 
Backwards  and  forwards  and  sideways  did  she  pass, 
Making  up  her  mind  to  face  the  cruel  looking-glass. 
The  cruel  looking-glass  that  will  never  show  a  lass 
As  comely  or  as  kindly  or  as  young  as  what  she  was ! 

The  Queen  was  in  her  chamber,  a-combing  of  her  hair. 

There  came  Queen  Mary's  spirit  and  It  stood  behind  her 
chair, 

Singing,  "  Backwards  and  forwards  and  sideways  may  you 
pass, 

But  I  will  stand  beside  you  till  you  face  the  looking- 
glass. 

The  cruel  looking-glass  that  will  never  show  a  lass 

As  lovely  or  unlucky  or  as  lonely  as  I  was." 


Drake's  Drum  41 

The  Queen  was  in  her  chamber,  a-weeping  very  sore, 
There  came  Lord  Leicester's  spirit  and  It  scratched  upon 

the  door, 
Singing,    "  Backwards  and   forwards  and  sideways  may 

you  pass, 

But  I  will  walk  beside  you  till  you  face  the  looking-glass. 
The  cruel  looking-glass  that  will  never  show  a  lass, 
As  hard  and  unforgiving  and  as  wicked  as  you  was !  " 

The  Queen  was  in  her  chamber,  her  sins  were  on  her 

head. 

She  looked  the  spirits  up  and  down  and  statelily  she  said : — 
"  Backwards    and    forwards    and    sideways    though    I've 

been, 

Yet  I  am  Harry's  daughter  and  I  am  England's  Queen !  " 
And  she  faced  the  looking-glass  (and  whatever  else  there 

was) 
And  she  saw  her  day  was  over  and  she  saw  her  beauty 

pass 

In  the  cruel  looking-glass,  that  can  always  hurt  a  lass 
More  hard  than  any  ghost  there  is  or  any  man  there  was ! 


DRAKE'S  DRUM  :  HENRY  NEWBOLT 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  miles  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a  dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore  light  flashin*  an'  the  night-tide  dashin' 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 


43  The  Haunted  Hour 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Rovin'  tho'  his  death  fell,  he  went  with  wi'  heart  of  ease 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
"  Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum  them  up  the  channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  all  the  time  of  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin' 

They  shall  find  him  ware  and  wakin',  as  they  found 
him  long  ago! 


THE  GREY  GHOST  :  FRANCIS  CARLIN 

From  year  to  year  there  walks  a  Ghost  in  grey, 
Through  misty  Connemara  in  the  West; 
And  those  who  seek  the  cause  of  his  unrest, 

Need  go  but  to  the  Death-dumb  in  the  clay, 

To  those  that  fell  defiant  in  the  fray, 
Among  the  boggy  wilds  of  Ireland,  blest 
By  Cromwell,  when  his  Puritanic  jest 

Left  Hell  and  Connaught  open  on  their  way. 


Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge  43 

As  I  have  heard  so  may  the  stranger  hear! 

That  he  who  drove  the  natives  from  the  lawn, 

Must  wander  o'er  the  marsh  and  foggy  fen 
Until  the  Irish  gather  with  a  cheer 

In  Dublin  of  the  Parliaments  at  dawn. 

God  rest  the  ghost  of  Cromwell's  dust,  Amen ! 


BALLAD  OF  DOUGLAS  BRIDGE  :  FRANCIS  CARLIN 

On  Douglas  Bridge  I  met  a  man 
Who  lived  adjacent  to  Straban, 

Before  the  English  hung  him  high 
For  riding  with  O'Hanlon. 

The  eyes  of  him  were  just  as  fresh 
As  when  they  burned  within  the  flesh; 

And  his  boot-legs  widely  walked  apart 
From  riding  with  O'Hanlon. 

"God  save  you,  Sir!"  I  said  with  fear, 
"  You  seem  to  be  a  stranger  here." 

"  Not  I,"  said  he,  "  nor  any  man 
Who  rides  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

"  I  know  each  glenn  from  North  Tyrone 
To  Monaghan,  and  I've  been  known 

By  every  clan  and  parish,  since 
I  rode  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

"  Before  that  time,"  said  he  with  pride, 
"  My  fathers  rode  where  now  they  ride 

As  Rapperees,  before  the  time 
Of  Trouble  and  O'Hanlon." 


44  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Good  night  to  you,  and  God  be  with 
The  Tellers  of  the  tale  and  myth, 
For  they  are  of  the  spirit-stuff 
That  rides  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

"  Good  night  to  you,"  said  I,  "  and  God 
Be  with  the  chargers,  fairy-shod, 

That  bear  the  Ulster's  heroes  forth 
To  ride  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

On  Douglas  Bridge  we  parted,  but 
The  Gap  o'  Dreams  is  never  shut, 

To  one  whose  saddled  soul  to-night 
Rides  out  with  Count  O'Hanlon. 


THE     INDIAN     BURYING     GROUND :  PHILIP 

FRENEAU 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands; — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast, 

His  imaged  birds  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  wants  no  rest. 


The  Indian  Burying  Ground  45 

His  bow  for  action   ready  bent, 

And  arrows  with  a  head  of  stone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 

And   not   the   old    ideas   gone. 

Thou,  stranger  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit, — 

Observe  the  swelling  turf  and  say, 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 

On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace, 

(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains,) 
The   fancies  of   a  ruder   race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far  projecting  shade, 

(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires,) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played. 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen, 
(Pale  Shebah  with  her  braided  hair,) 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  misting  dews, 

In  habit  of  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer — a  shade! 

And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 
The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear, 

The  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 


"  RANK  ON  RANK  OF  GHOSTLY  SOLDIERS  " 


THE  SONG  OF  SOLDIERS  :  WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

As  I   sat  musing  by  the  frozen  dyke, 

There  was  one  man  marching  with  a  bright  steel  pike, 

Marching  in  the  daylight,  like  a  ghost  came  he, 

And  behind  me  was  the  moaning  and  the  murmur  of  the 


As  I  sat  musing,  'twas  not  one  but  ten — 
Rank  on  rank  of  ghostly  soldiers  marching  o'er  the  fen, 
Marching  in  the  misty  air  they  showed  in  dreams  to  me, 
And  behind  me  was  the  shouting  and  the  shattering  of 
the  sea. 

As  I  sat  musing,  'twas  a  host  in  dark  array, 

With  their  horses  and  their  cannon  wheeling  onward  to 

the  fray, 

Moving  like  a  shadow  to  the  fate  the  brave  must  dree, 
And  behind  me  roared  the  drums,  rang  the  trumpets  of 

the  sea. 


BY  THE  BLOCKHOUSE  ON  THE  HILL  :  HELEN 

GRAY  CONE 
A  Ballad  of  Ninety-eight 

The  soul  of  the  fair  young  man  sprang  up 
From  the  earth  where  his  body  lay, 

And  he  was  aware  of  a  grim  dark  soul 
Companioning  his  way. 
49 


5O  The  Haunted  Hour 

"Who  are  you,  brother?"  the  fair  soul  said, 

"  We  wing  together  still !  " 
And  the  soul  replied  that  was  swart  and  red, 
"  The  spirit  of  him  who  shot  you  dead 

By  the  blockhouse  on  the  hill. 

"  Your  men  and  you  on  the  crest  were  first, 

And  the  last  foe  left  was  I, 
In  the  crackle  of  rifles  I  dropped  and  cursed, 
Lightning-struck  as  the  cheer  outburst 
And  the  hot  charge  panted  nigh. 

"  You  saw  me  writhe  at  the  side  of  the  trench ; 

You  bade — I  know  not  what; 
With  one  last  gnash,  with  one  last  wrench, 

I  sped  my  last,  sure  shot. 

"  The  thing  that  lies  on  the  sodden  ground 
Like  a  wrack  of  the  whirlwind's  track, 

Your  men  have  made  of  the  body  of  me, 
But  they  could  not  call  you  back! 

"  In  that  black  game  I  won,  I  won ! 

But  had  you  worked  your  will, 
Speak  now  the  shame  that  you  would  have  done 

In  the  blockhouse  under  the  hill !  " 

"  God  judge  my  men !  "  said  the  fair  young  soul, 
"  He  knows  you  tried  them  sore. 

Had  He  given  me  power  to  bide  an  hour 
I  had  wrought  that  they  forebore. 

"  I  bade  them,  ere  your  bullet  brought 
This  swift,  this  sweet  release, 

To  bear  your  body  out  of  the  fire 
That  you  might  rest  in  peace." 


Night  at  Gettysburg  51 

Said  the  grim  dark  soul,  "  Farewell,  farewell, 

Farewell  'twixt  you  and  me 
Till  they  set  red  Judas  free  from  Hell 

To  kneel  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee!  " 

"  Not  so,  not  so,"  said  the  fair  young  soul, 

"  But  reach  me  out  your  hand: 
We  two  will  kneel  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee, 
And  he  that  was  hanged  on  the  cruel  tree 

Will  remember  and  understand. 

"  We  two  will  pray  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee 

That  never  on  earth  again 
The  breath  of  the  hot  brute  guns  shall  cloud 

The  sight  in  the  eyes  of  men !  " 

The  clean  stars  came  into  the  sky, 

The   perfect   night  was   still; 
Yet  rose  to  heaven  the  old  blood-cry 

From  the  blockhouse  under  the  hill. 


NIGHT  AT  GETTYSBURG  :  DON  c.  SEITZ 

By  day  Golgotha  sleeps,  but  when  night  comes 
The  army  rallies  to  the  beating  drums; 
Columns  are  formed  and  banners  wave 
O'er  armies  summoned  from  the  grave. 

The  wheat  field  waves  with  reddened  grain 
And  the  wounded  wail  and  writhe  in  pain. 
The  hard-held  Bloody  Angle  drips  anew 
And  Pickett  charges  with  a  ghostly  crew, 

While  where  the  road  to  the  village  turns 
Stands  the  tall  shadow  of  old  John  Burns! 


52  The  Haunted  Hour 


THE  RIDERS  :  KATHERINE  TYNAN 

Rheims  is  down  in  fire  and  smoke, 
The  hour  of  God  is  at  the  stroke, 

Round  and  round  the  ruined  place,— 
Jesus,  Mary,  give  us  grace! 

There  are  two  riders  clad  in  mail 
Silver  as  the  moon  is  pale. 

One  is  tall  as  a  knight's  spear, 
The  younger  one  is  lowlier. 

Small  and  slim  and  like  a  maid — 
Steeds  and  riders  cast  no  shade. 

Who  are  then  these  cavaliers? 

There  was  a  sound  as  Heaven  dropt  tears. 

Who  are  those  who  ride  so  light, 
Soundless  in  the  flaming  light, 

Where  Rheims  burns,  that  was  given 
By  France  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven? 

Oh,  our  Rheims,  our  Rheims  is  down, 
Naught  is  left  of  her  renown. 

Hist!  what  sound  is  in  the  breeze 
Like  the  sighing  of  forest  trees? 

Or  the  great  wind,  or  an  army, 
Or  the  waves  of  the  wild  sea? 


The  White  Comrade  53 

The  tall  knight  rides  fierce  and  fast 
To  the  sound  of  a  trumpet-blast. 

The  little  knight  in  fire  and  flame, 
Slender  and  soft  as  a  dame, 

Rides  and  is  not  far  behind: 
His  long  hair  floats  on  the  wind, 

And  ever  the  tramp  of  chivalry 
Comes  like  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

This   is   Michael   rides   abroad, 
Prince  of  the  army  of  God, 

And  this  like  a  lily  arrayed 
Is  Joan,  the  blessed  Maid. 

Rheims  is  down  in  fire  and  smoke 
And  the  hour  of  God's  at  the  stroke. 


THE  WHITE  COMRADE:  ROBERT  HAVEN 

SCHAUFFLER 

Under  our  curtain  of  fire, 

Over  the  clotted  clods, 

We  charged,  to  be  withered,  to  reel 

And  despairingly  wheel 

When  the  signal  bade  us  retire 

From  the  terrible  odds. 


54  The  Haunted  Hour 

As  we  ebbed  with  the  battle-tide, 

Fingers  of  red-hot  steel 

Suddenly  closed  on  my  side. 

I  fell,  and  began  to  pray. 

I  crawled  on  my  hands  and  lay 

Where  a  shallow  crater  yawned  wide; 

Then, — I  swooned.   .    .    . 

When  I  woke,  it  was  yet  day. 
Fierce  was  the  pain  of  my  wound, 
But  I  saw  it  was  death  to  stir, 
For  fifty  paces  away 
Their  trenches  were. 
In  torture  I  prayed  for  the  dark 
And  the  stealthy  step  of  my  friend 
Who,  stanch  to  the  very  end, 
Would  creep  to  the  danger  zone 
And  offer  his  life  as  a  mark 
To  save  my  own. 

Night  fell.     I  heard  his  tread, 

Not  stealthy,  but  firm  and  serene, 

As  if  my  comrade's  head 

Were  lifted  far  from  that  scene 

Of  passion  and   pain  and  dread; 

As  if  my  comrade's  heart 

In  carnage  took  no  part; 

As  if  my  comrade's  feet 

Were  set  on  some  radiant  street 

Such  as  no  darkness  might  haunt; 

As  if  my  comrade's  eyes 

No  deluge  of  flame  could  surprise, 

No  death  and  destruction  daunt, 

No  red-beaked  bird  dismay, 

Nor  sight  of  decay. 


The  White  Comrade  55 

Then  in  the  bursting  shells'  dim  light 

I  saw  he  was  clad  in  white. 

For  a  moment  I  thought  that  I  saw  the  smock 

Of  a  shepherd  in  search  of  his  flock. 

Alert  were  the  enemy,  too, 

And  their  bullets  flew 

Straight  at  a  mark  no  bullet  could  fail; 

For  the  seeker  was  tall  and  his  robe  was 

bright; 

But  he  did  not  flee  nor  quail. 
Instead,  with  unhurrying  stride 
He  came, 

And  gathering  my  tall  frame, 
Like  a  child,  in  his  arms.  .   .   . 

Again  I  slept, 

And  awoke 

From  a  blissful  dream 

In  a  cave  by  a  stream. 

My  silent  comrade  had  bound  my  side. 

No  pain  now  was  mine,  but  a  wish  that  I 

spoke, — 

A  mastering  wish  to  serve  this  man 
Who  had  ventured  through  hell  my  doom  to 

revoke, 

As  only  the  truest  of  comrades  can. 
I  begged  him  to  tell  me  how  best  I  might  aid 

him, 

And  urgently  prayed  him 
Never  to  leave  me,  whatever  betide; — 
When  I  saw  he  was  hurt — 
Shot  through  the  hands  that  were  clasped 

in  prayer! 

Then  as  the  dark  drops  gathered  there 
And  fell  in  the  dirt, 


56  The  Haunted  Hour 

The  wounds  of  my  friend 

Seemed  to  me  such  as  no  man  might  bear. 

Those  bullet-holes  in  the  patient  hands 

Seemed  to  transcend 

All  horrors  that  ever  these  war-drenched  lands 

Had  known  or  would  know  till  the  mad 

world's  end. 

Then  suddenly  I  was  aware 
That  his  feet  had  been  wounded  too; 
And,  dimming  the  white  of  his  side, 
A  dull  stain  grew. 

"  You  are  hurt,  White  Comrade !  "  I  cried. 
His  words  I  already  foreknew: 
"  These  are  old  wounds,"  said  he, 
"  But  of  late  they  have  troubled  me." 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  ARGONNE  :  GRANTLAND  RICE 

You  can  hear  them  at  night  when  the  moon  is  hidden ; 

They  sound  like  the  rustle  of  winter  leaves, 
Or  lone  lost  winds  that  arise,  unbidden, 

Or  rain  that  drips  from  the  forest  eaves, 
As  they  glide  again  from  their  silent  crosses 

To  meet  and  talk  of  their  final  fight, 
Where  over  the  group  some  stark  tree  tosses 

Its  eerie  shadow  across  the  night. 

If  you'll  take  some  night  with  its  moonless  weather, 
I  know  you  will  reason  beyond  a  doubt 

That  the  rain  and  the  wind  and  the  leaves  together 
Are  making  the  sounds  you  will  hear  about: 


November  Eleventh  57 

The  wintry  rustle  of  dead  leaves  falling, 

The  whispering  wind  through  the  matted  glen; 

But  I  can  swear  it's  a  sergeant  calling 
The  ghostly  roll  of  his  squad  again. 

They  talk  of  war  and  its  crimson  glory, 

And  laugh  at  the  trick  which  Fate  has  played ; 
And  over  and  over  they  tell  the  story 

Of  their  final  charge  through  the  Argonne  glade; 
But  gathering  in  by  hill  and  hollow 

With  their  ghostly  tramp  on  the  rain-soaked  loam, 
There  is  one  set  rule  which  the  clan  must  follow: 

They  never  speak  of  returning  home. 

They  whisper  still  of  the  rifles'  clatter, 

The  riveting  racket  machine  guns  gave, 
Until  dawn  comes  and  the  clan  must  scatter 

As  each  one  glides  to  his  waiting  grave; 
But  here  at  the  end  of  their  last  endeavor 

However  their  stark  dreams  leap  the  foam 
There  is  one  set  rule  they  will  keep  forever: 

"  Death  to  the  Phantom  who  speaks  of  home!  " 


NOVEMBER  ELEVENTH:  RUTH  COMFORT 

MITCHELL 

It  was  three  slim  young  wraiths  that  met  in  the  heart  of 
a  great  play-ground, 

And  two  of  them  watched  the  shining  sports  in  the  fields 
that  ringed  them  round, 

But  one  of  them  bent  an  earthward  ear  to  follow  a  far- 
off  sound. 


58  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Listen,"  he  cried,  "  they  know,  down  there!  Oh!  don't 
you  hear  the  bells?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  one,  with  a  wise  young  smile,  "  I  used 
to  hear  the  shells. 

Not  now;  oh,  not  for  ages  now!  I  came  from  the  Dar- 
danelles." 

"  I  from  the  Marne,"  the  third  one  sighed,  "  but  these  are 

only  names. 
Eh  bien,  mon  vieux,  one  must  forget  those  little  strifes 

and  fames! 
Here  is  a  host  of  Golden  Lads,  that  play  at  golden 

games." 

But  the  new  boy  ran  to  the  turf's  green  rim  and  bent 

with  an  anxious  frown, — 
"  It's  the  curfew  bell !    I  hear  them  cheer !    It's  my  little 

own  home  town! 
I  hear  my  dad!     I  can  almost  see "  and  his  eager 

gaze  plunged  down. 

"  Soon,  mon  ami,"  soothed  the  dark-eyed  wraith,  "  these 

teasing  dreams  will  cease! 
One  plays  all  day,  one  leaps  the  stars,  one  seeks  the 

Golden  Fleece!" 
Still  the  new  boy  turned  his  white  young  face  from  the 

Land  of  the  Great  Release. — 
"But  I  was  killed  two  hours  ago,  while  they  signed  the 

terms  of  peace" 


SEA  GHOSTS 


THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN  :  CHARLES   GODFREY 

LELAND 

We  met  the  Flying  Dutchman, 

By  midnight  he  came, 
His  hull  was  all  of  hell  fire, 

His  sails  were  all  aflame; 
Fire  on  the  main-top, 

Fire  on  the  bow, 
Fire  on  the  gun-deck, 

Fire  down  below. 

Four-and-twenty  dead  men, 

Those  were  the  crew, 
The  devil  on  the  bowsprit, 

Fiddled  as  she  flew, 
We  gave  her  the  broadside, 

Right  in   the  dip, 
Just  like  a  candle, 

Went  out  the  ship. 

THE  PHANTOM  SHIP  :  HENRY  w.  LONGFELLOW 

In  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  the  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 
61 


62  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  O  Lord,  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  " — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine — 

"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine." 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

"  This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty, 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be ! " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When   the  winter  months   were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 
That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 
He  had  done  with  their  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered: 
It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 

An  hour  before  the  sunset 
Of   a   windy    afternoon. 

When   steadily   steering   landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 


The  Phantom  Light  of  the  Bate  des  Chaleurs      63 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 

Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds. 
And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 

And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  the  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 

Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 
That,   to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 

He  had  sent  this  ship  of  air. 


THE  PHANTOM  LIGHT  OF  THE  BAIE  DES 
CHALEURS:    ARTHUR    WENTWORTH     HAMILTON 
EATON 

'Tis  the  laughter  of  pines  that  swing  and  sway 
Where  the  breeze  from  the  land  meets  the  breeze 

from  the  bay, 

'Tis  the  silvery  foam  of  the  silver  tide 
In  ripples  that  reach  to  the  forest  side; 
'Tis  the  fisherman's  boat,  in  the  track  of  sheen, 
Plying  through  tangled  seaweed  green, 
O'er  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


64  The  Haunted  Hour 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  phantom  light 
That  over  the  moaning  waves    at  night 
Dances  and  drifts  in  endless  play, 
Close  to  the  shore,   then  far  away, 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  light  that  lies 
On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


They  tell  us  that  many  a  year  ago, 
From  lands  where  the  palm  and  olive  grow, 
Where  vines  with  their  purple  clusters  creep 
Over  the  hillsides  gray  and  steep, 
A  knight  in  his  doublet,  slashed  with  gold, 
Famed  in  that  chivalrous  time  of  old, 
For  valorous  deeds  and  courage  rare, 
Sailed  with  a  princess  wondrous  fair 
To  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

That  a  pirate  crew  from  some  isle  of  the  sea, 
A  murderous  band  as  e'er  could  be, 
With  a  shadowy  sail,  and  a  flag  of  night, 
That  flaunted  and  flew  in  heaven's  sight, 
Swept  in  the  wake  of  the  lovers  there, 
And  sank  the  ship  and  its  freight  so  fair 
In  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

Strange  is  the  tale  that  the  fishermen  tell, — 
They  say  that  a  ball  of  fire  fell 
Straight  from  the  sky,  with  crash  and  roar, 
Lighting  the  bay  from  shore  to  shore; 
That  the  ship  with  a  shudder  and  a  groan, 
Sank  through  the  waves  to  the  caverns  lone 
Of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


The  Sands  of  Dee  65 

That  was  the  last  of  the  pirate  crew, 

But  many  a  night  a  black  flag  flew 

From  the  mast  of  a  spectre  vessel,  sailed 

By  a  spectre  band  that  wept  and  wailed, 

For  the  wreck  they  had  wrought  on  the  sea  and 

the  land, 

For  the  innocent  blood  they  had  spilt  on  the  sand, 
Of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  phantom  light, 
That  fills  the  mariner's  heart  at  night, 
With  dread  as  it  gleams  o'er  his  path  on  the  bay, 
Now  by  the  shore,  then  far  away, 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  moon  that  lies 
On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE  :  CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 


66  The  Haunted  Hour 

"Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  of   Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea, 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee! 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP  :  THOMAS 

MOORE 

"  They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true; 
And  she's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  death  is  near!" 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds, — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before! 


The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  67 

And  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 

And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"  Oh,  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear?  " 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played, — 
"Welcome,"  he  said,  "my  dear  one's  light!" 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed  for  many  a  night, 

The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid! 

He  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 
Which  carried  him  off  from  shore; 
Far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark, 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 

But  oft  from  the  Indian-  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true, 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp, 
To  cross  the  lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe! 


68  The  Haunted  Hour 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  OF  THE  TAPPAN 

ZEE  :    ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

On  Tappan  Zee  a  shroud  of  gray 

Is  heavy,  dank,  and  low. 
And  dimly  gleams  the  beacon-ray 

Of  white  Pocantico. 

No  skipper  braves  old  Hudson  now 
Where  Nyack's  Headlands  frown, 

And  safely  moored  is  every  prow 
Of  drowsy  Tarrytown; 

Yet,  clear  as  word  of  human  lip, 

The  river  sends  its  shores 
The  rhythmic  rullock-clank  and  drip 

Of  even-rolling  oars. 

What  rower  plies  a  reckless  oar 
With  mist  on  flood  and  strand? 

That  Oarsman   toils  forevermore 
And  ne'er  shall  reach  the  land. 

Roystering,  rollicking  Ram  van  Dam, 
Fond  of  a  frolic  and  fond  of  a  dram, 
Fonder — yea,  fonder,  proclaims  renown, — 
Of  Tryntje  Bogardus  of  Tarrytown, 
Leaves  Spuyten  Duyvil  to  roar  his  song! 
Pull!     For  the  current  is  sly  and  strong; 
Nestles  the  robin  and  flies  the  bat. 
Ho!  for  the  frolic  at  Kakiat! 

Merry,  the  sport  at  the  quilting  bee 
Held  at  the  farm  on  the  Tappan  Zee! 


The  Flying  Dutchman  of  the  Tappan  Zee       69 

Jovial  labor  with  quips  and  flings, 
Dances  with  wonderful  pigeon  wings, 
Twitter  of  maidens  and  clack  of  dames, 
Honest  flirtations  and  rousing  games; 
Platters  of  savory  beef  and  brawn, 
Buckets  of  treacle  and  good  suppawn, 
Oceans  of  cider,  and  beer  in  lakes, 
Mountains  of  crullers  and  honey-cakes — 
Such  entertainment  could  never  pall! 
Rambout  Van  Dam  took  his  fill  of  all; 
Laughed  with  the  wittiest,  worked  with  a  zest, 
Danced  with  the  prettiest,  drank  with  the  best. 

Oh!  that  enjoyment  should  breed  annoy! 
Tryntje  grew  fickle  or  cold  or  coy; 
Rambout,  possessed  of  a  jealous  sprite, 
Scowled  like  the  sky  on  a  stormy  night, 
Snarled  a  good-bye  from  his  sullen  throat, 
Blustered  away  to  his  tugging  boat. 
After  him  hastened  Jacobus  Horn: 
"  Stay  with  us,  Rambout,  till  Monday  morn. 
Soon  in  the  east  will  the  dawn  be  gray, 
Rest  from  thy  oars  on  the  Sabbath  Day." 

Angrily  Rambout  van  Dam  ripped  back: 
"  Dunder  en  Blitzen!  du  Schobbejak! 
Preach  to  thy  children!  and  let  them  know 
Spite  of  the  duyvil  and  thee,  I'll  row 
Thousands  of  Sundays,  if  need  there  be, 
Home  o'er  this  ewig-vervlekte  zee!  " 
Muttering  curses,  he  headed  south. 
Jacob,  astounded,  with  open  mouth 
Watched  him  receding,  when — crash  on  crash 
Volleyed  the  thunder!     A  hissing  flash 


70  The  Haunted  Hour 

Smote  on  the  river!     He  looked  again. 
Rambout  was  gone  from  the  sight  of  men ! 

Old  Dunderberg  with  grumbling  roar 
Hath  warned  the  fog  to  flee, 

But  still  that  never-wearied  oar 
Is  heard  on  Tappan  Zee. 

A  moon  is  closed  on  Hudson's  breast 
And  lanterns  gem  the  town ; 

The  phantom  craft  that  may  not  rest 
Plies  ever,  up  and  down, 

'Neath  skies  of  blue  and  skies  of  gray, 
In  spite  of  wind  or  tide, 

Until  the  trump  of  Judgment  Day — 
A  sound — and  naught  beside. 


THE   WHITE   SHIPS   AND  THE   RED  :  JOYCE 

KILMER 

With  drooping  sail  and  pennant 

That  never  a  wind  may  reach, 
They  float  in  sunless  waters 

Beside  a  sunless  beach. 
Their  misty  masts  and  funnels 

Are  white  as  driven  snow, 
And  with  a  pallid  radiance 

Their  ghostly  bulwarks  glow. 

Here  is  a  Spanish  galleon 

That  once  with  gold  was  gay, 

Here  is  a  Roman  trireme 

Whose  hues  outshone  the  day. 


The  White  Ships  and  the  Red  71 

But  Tyrian  dyes  have  faded, 

And  prows  that  once  were  bright 

With  rainbow  stains  wear  only 
Death's  livid,  dreadful  white. 

White  as  the  ice  that  clove  her 

That  unforgotten  day, 
Among  her  pallid  sisters 

The  grim  Titanic  lay. 
And   through   the   leagues  above   her 

She  looked  aghast  and  said: 
"  What  is  this  living  ship  that  comes 

Where  every  ship  is  dead  ?  " 

The  ghostly  vessels  trembled 

From  ruined  stern  to  prow; 
What  was  this  thing  of  terror 

That  broke  their  vigil  now? 
Down  through  the  startled  ocean 

A  mighty  vessel  came, 
Not  white,  as  all  dead  ships  must  be, 

But  red,  like  living  flame! 

The  pale  green  waves  above  her 

Were  swiftly,   strangely   dyed, 
By  the  great  scarlet  stream  that  flowed 

From   out  her  wounded   side. 
And  all  her  decks  were  scarlet 

And  all  her  shattered  crew. 
She  sank  among  the  white  ghost  ships 

And  stained  them  through  and  through. 

The  grim  Titanic  greeted  her. 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  she  said ; 
"  Why  dost  thou  join  our  ghostly  fleet 

Arrayed  in  living  red? 


72  The  Haunted  Hour 

We  are  the  ships  of  sorrow 
Who  spend  the  weary  night, 

Until  the  dawn  of  Judgment  Day, 
Obscure  and  still  and  white." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  scarlet  visitor, 

"  Though  I  sink  through  the  sea, 
A  ruined  thing  that  was  a  ship, 

I  sink  not  as  did  ye. 
For  ye  met  with  your  destiny 

By  storm  or  rock  or  fight, 
So  through  the  lagging  centuries 

Ye  wear  your  robes  of  white. 

"  But  never  crashing  iceberg 

Nor  honest  shot  of  foe, 
Nor  hidden  reef  has  sent  me 

The  way  that  I  must  go. 
My  wounds  that  stain  the  waters, 

My  blood  that  is  like  flame, 
Bear  witness  to  a  loathly  deed, 

A  deed  without  a  name. 

"  I  went  not  forth  to  battle, 

I  carried  friendly  men, 
The  children  played  about  my  decks, 

The  women  sang — and  then — 
And  then — the  sun  blushed  scarlet 

And  Heaven  hid  its  face, 
The  world  that  God  created 

Became  a  shameful  place! 

"  My  wrongs  cry  out  for  vengeance, 
The  blow  that  sent  me  here 

Was  aimed  in  Hell.    My  dying  scream 
Has  reached  Jehovah's  ear. 


Feather  stone's  Doom  73 

Not  all  the  seven  oceans 

Shall  wash  away  that  stain; 
Upon  the  brow  that  wears  a  crown 

I  am  the  brand  of  Cain." 


When   God's   great  voice   assembles 

The  fleet  on  Judgment  Day, 
The  ghosts  of  ruined  ships  will  rise 

In  sea  and  strait  and  bay. 
Though  they  have  lain  for  ages 

Beneath  the  changeless  flood, 
They  shall  be  white  as  silver, 

But  one — shall  be  like  blood. 


FEATHERSTONE'S  DOOM  :    ROBERT  STEPHEN 

HAWKER 

Twist  thou  and  twine!  in  light  and  gloom 

A  spell  is  on  thy  hand; 
The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 

Thy  web  the  twisting  sand. 

Twine  from  this  hour,  in  ceaseless  toil, 
On   Blackrock's  sullen  shore: 

Till  cordage  of  the  sand  shall  coil 
Where  crested  surges  roar. 

'Tis  for  that  hour,  when  from  the  wave 

Near  voices  wildly   cried; 
When  thy  stern  hand  no  succour  gave, 

The  cable  at  thy  side. 


74  The  Haunted  Hour 

Twist  thou  and  twine!     In  light  and  gloom 
The  spell  is  on  thine  hand ; 

The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 
Thy  web  the  shifting  sand. 


SEA-GHOSTS  :  MAY  BYRON 

O'  stormy  nights,  be  they  summer  or  winter, 

Hurricane  nights  like  these, 
When  spar  and  topsail  are  rag  and  splinter 

Hurled  o'er  the  sluicing  seas, 

To  the  jagged  edge  where  the  cliffs  lean  over, 

Climb  as  you  best  may  climb; 
Lie  there  and  listen  where  mysteries  hover, 

Haunting  the  tides  of  Time. 

The  crumbling  surf  on  the  shingle  rattles, 
The  great  waves  topple  and   pour, 

Full  of  the  fury  of  ancient  battles, 
Clamant  with  cries  of  war. 

The  gale  has  summoned,  the  night  has  beckoned- 

Lo,  from  the  east  and  west, 
Stately  shadows  arise  unreckoned 

Out  of   their  deeps  of   rest! 

Wild  on  the  wind  are  voices  ringing, 

Echoes  that  throng  the  air, 
Valiant  voices,   of  victory  singing, 

Or  dark  with  sublime  despair. 


Sea-Ghosts  75 

To  the  distant  drums  with  their  rumbling  hollow, 

The  answering  trumpets  blow: 
War-horn  and  fife  and  cymbals  follow, 

From  galleys  of   long  ago. 

The  crested  breaker  on  reef  and  boulder 

That  swirls  in  cavernous  black, 
Carries  a  challenge  from  decks  that  moulder 

To  ships  that  never  came  back. 

The  gale  that  swoops  and  the  sea  that  wrestles 
Are  one  in  their  wrath  and  might 

With  the  crash  and  clashing  of  armed  vessels, 
Grinding  across  the  night. 

Out  of  the  dark  the  broadsides  thunder, 

Clattering  to  and  fro: 
The  old  sea-fighters,   the  old   world's  wonder, 

Are  manning  their  wrecks  below. 

You  shall  smell  the  smoke,  you  shall  hear  the  crackle, 

Shall  mark  on  the  surly  blast 
Rush  and  tear  of  the  rending  tackle, 

Thud  of  the  falling  mast. 

With  the  foam  that  flies  and  the  spray  that  spatters, 

Scourging  the  strand  again, 
A  terrible  outcry  leaps  and  shatters — 

Tumult  of  drowning  men. 

The  steep  gray  cliff  is  alive  and  trembles — 

Was  never  such  fear  as  this! 
A  fleet,  a  fleet  at  its  foot  assembles 

Out  of  the  sea's  abyss. 


76  The  Haunted  Hour 

It  quails  and  quivers,  its  grassy  verges 
Vibrant  with  uttermost  dread: 

It  knows  the  groan  of  the  laden  surges, 
The  shout  of  the  deathless  Dead. 

In  a  rolling  march  of  reverberations, 
Marching  with  wind  and  tide, 

Heroes  of  unremembered  nations 
Vaunt  their  immortal  pride. 

Briton,  Spaniard,  Phoenician,  Roman, 
Gallant  implacable  hosts — 

Locked  in  fight  with  phantom  foeman, 
Gather  the  grim  sea-ghosts. 


FOG  WRAITHS  :  MILDRED  HOWELLS 

In  from  the  ocean  the  white  fog  creeps, 
Blotting  out  ship,  and  rock,  and  tree, 

While  wrapped  in  its  shroud,  from  the  soundless 

deeps, 
Back  to  the  land  come  the  lost  at  sea. 

Over  the  weeping  grass  they  drift 

By  well-known  paths  to  their  homes  again, 

To  finger  the  latch  they  may  not  lift 

And  peer  through  the  glistering  window-pane. 

Then  in  the  churchyard  each  seeks  the  stone 
To  its  memory  raised  among  the  rest, 

And  they  watch  by  their  empty  graves  alone 
Till  the  fog  rolls  back  to  the  ocean's  breast. 


CHEERFUL  SPIRITS 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL  :  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

"  I  was  in  a  hooker  once,"  said  Karlssen, 

"  And  Bill,  as  was  a  seaman,  died, 
So  we  lashed  him  in  an  old  tarpaulin 

And  tumbled  him  across  the  side; 
And  the  fun  of  it  was  that  all  his  gear  was 

Divided  up  among  the  crew 
Before  that  blushing  human  error 

Our  crawling  little  captain,  knew. 

"  On  the  passage  home  one  morning 

(As  certain  as  I  prays  for  grace) 
There  was  old  Bill's  shadder  a-hauling 

At  the  mizzen  weather  topsail  brace. 
He  was  all  grown  green  with  seaweed 

He  was  all  lashed  up  and  shored ; 
So  I  says  to  him,  I  says,  '  Why,  Billy ! 

What's  a-bringin'  of  you  back  aboard  ? ' 

' '  I'm  a-weary  of  them  there  mermaids,' 

Says  old   Bill's  ghost  to   me; 
'  It  ain't  no  place  for  a  Christian 

Below  there — under  sea. 
For  it's  all  blown  sand  and  shipwrecks 

And  old  bones  eaten  bare, 
And  them  cold  fishy  females 

With  long  green  weeds  for  hair. 

79 


80  The  Haunted  Hour 

1 '  And  there  ain't  no  dances  shuffled, 

And  no  old  yarns  is  spun, 
And  there  ain't  no  stars  but  starfish, 

And  never  any  moon  or  sun. 
I  heard  your  keel  a-passing 

And   the   running  rattle  of   the   brace, 

And  I  says,  "  Stand  by,"  '  says  William, 
"  For  a  shift  towards  a  better  place."  ' 

"  Well,  he  sogered  about  decks  till  sunrise, 

When  a  rooster  in  the  hen-coop  crowed, 
And  as  so  much  smoke  he  faded, 

And  as  so  much  smoke  he  goed ; 
And  I've  often  wondered  since,  Jan, 

How  his  old  ghost  stands  to  fare 
Long  o'  them  cold  fishy  females 

With  long  green  weeds  for  hair." 


LEGEND  OF  HAMILTON  TIGHE:  RICHARD  HAR- 
RIS BARHAM 

The  Captain  is  walking  his  quarter-deck, 
With  a  troubled  brow  and  a  bended  neck ; 
One  eye  is  down  through  the  hatchway  cast, 
The  other  turns  up  to  the  truck  on  the  mast; 
Yet  none  of  the  crew  may  venture  to  hint 
"  Our  skipper  hath  gotten  a  sinister  squint !  " 

The  Captain  again  the  letter  hath  read 

Which  the  bum-boat  woman  brought  out  to  Spithead — 

Still,  since  the  good  ship  sail'd  away, 

He  reads  that  letter  three  times  a-day; 


Legend  of  Hamilton   Tighe  81 

Yet  the  writing  is  broad  and  fair  to  see 

As  a  Skipper  may  read  in  his  degree, 

And  the  seal  is  as  black,  and  as  broad,  and  as  flat, 

As  his  own  cockade  in  his  own  cock'd  hat: 

He  reads,  and  he  says,  as  he  walks  to  and  fro, 

"  Curse  the  old  woman — she  bothers  me  so !  " 

He  pauses  now,  for  the  topmen  hail — 

"  On  the  larboard  quarter  a  sail !  a  sail !  " 

That  grim  old  Captain  he  turns  him  quick, 

And  bawls  through  his  trumpet  for  Hairy-faced  Dick. 

"The  breeze  is  blowing — huzza!  huzza! 

The  breeze  is  blowing — away!  away! 

The  breeze  is  blowing — a  race!  a  race! 

The  breeze  is  blowing — we  near  the  chase! 

Blood  will  flow,  and  bullets  will  fly, — 

Oh,  where  will  be  then  young  Hamilton  Tighe?  " 

"  On  the  foeman's  deck,  where  a  man  should  be, 

With  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his  foe  at  his  knee. 

Cockswain,  or  boatswain,  or  reefer  may  try, 

But  the  first  man  on  board  will  be  Hamilton  Tighe !  " 

Hairy-faced  Dick  hath  a  swarthy  hue, 
Between  a  gingerbread-nut  and  a  Jew, 
And  his  pigtail  is  long,  and  bushy,  and  thick, 
Like  a  pump-handle  stuck  on  the  end  of  a  stick. 
Hairy-faced  Dick  understands  his  trade; 
He  stand  by  the  breech  of  a  long  carronade, 
The  linstock  glows  in  his  bony  hand, 
Waiting  that  grim  old  Skipper's  command. 

"  The  bullets  are  flying — huzza !  huzza ! 
The  bullets  are  flying — away!  away!  " — 


82  The  Haunted  Hour 

The  brawny  boarders  mount  by  the  chains, 

And  are  over  their  buckles  in  blood  and  in  brains. 

On  the  foeman's  deck,  where  a  man  should  be, 

Young  Hamilton  Tighe  waves  his  cutlass  high, 
And  Capitaine  Crapaud  bends  low  at  his  knee. 


Hairy-faced  Dick,  linstock  in  hand, 

Is  waiting  that  grim-looking  Skipper's  command : — 

A  wink  comes  sly  from  that  sinister  eye — 
Hairy-faced  Dick  at  once  lets  fly, 
And  knocks  off  the  head  of  young  Hamilton  Tighe ! 

There's  a  lady  sits  lonely  in  bower  and  hall, 

Her  pages  and  handmaidens  come  at  her  call: 

"  Now  look  ye,  my  handmaidens,  haste  now  and  see 

How  he  sits  there  and  glow'rs  with  his  head  on  his  knee!  " 

The  maidens  smile,  and,  her  thought  to  destroy, 

They  bring  her  a  little,  pale,  mealy-faced  boy; 

And  the  mealy-faced  boy  says,  "  Mother,  dear, 
Now  Hamilton's  dead,  I've  ten  thousand  a-year!" 

The  lady  has  donned  her  mantle  and  hood, 
She  is  bound  for  shrift  at  St.  Mary's  Rood : — 
"  Oh !  the  taper  shall  burn,  and  the  bell  shall  toll, 
And  the  mass  shall  be  said  for  my  step-son's  soul, 
And  the  tablet  fair  shall  be  hung  on  high, 
Orate  pro  anima  Hamilton  Tighe!  " 

Her  coach  and  four  Draws  up  to  the  door 

With  her  groom,  and  her  footman,  and  a  half  score  more; 

The  lady  steps  into  her  coach  alone, 

And  they  hear  her  sigh,  and  they  hear  her  groan; 


Legend  of  Hamilton  Tighe  83 

They  close  the  door,  and  they  turn  the  pin, 

But  there's  One  rides  with  her  that  never  slept  in! 

All  the  way  there,  and  all  the  way  back, 

The  harness  strains,   and  the  coach-springs  crack, 

The  horses  snort,  and  plunge,  and  kick, 

Till  the  coachman  thinks  he  is  driving  Old  Nick; 

And  the  grooms  and  the  footmen  wonder,  and  say, 

"What  makes  the  old  coach  so  heavy  to-day?" 

But  the  mealy-faced  boy  peeps  in,  and  sees 

A  man  sitting  there  with  his  head  on  his  knees! 

'Tis  ever  the  same — in  hall  or  in  bower, 

Wherever  the  place,  whatever  the  hour, 

That  Lady  mutters,  and  talks  to  the  air, 

And  her  eye  is  fix'd  on  an  empty  chair; 

But  the  mealy-faced  boy  still  whispers  with  dread, 

"  She  talks  to  a  man  with  never  a  head !  " 


There's  an  old  Yellow  Admiral  living  at  Bath, 
As  grey  as  a  badger,  as  thin  as  a  lath; 
And  his  very  queer  eyes  have  such  very  queer  leers, 
They  seem  to  be  trying  to  peep  at  his  ears; 
That  old  Yellow  Admiral  goes  to  the  Rooms, 
And  he  plays  long  whist,  but  he  frets  and  he  fumes, 
For  all  his  knaves  stand  upside  down, 
And  the  Jack  of  Clubs  does  nothing  but  frown; 
And  the  Kings  and  the  Aces,  and  all  the  best  trumps 
Get  into  the  hands  of  the  other  old  frumps; 
While,  close  to  his  partner,  a  man  he  sees 
Counting  the  tricks  with  his  head  on  his  knees. 

In  Ratcliffe  Highway  there's  an  old  marine  store, 
And  a  great  black  doll  hangs  out  of  the  door; 


84  The  Haunted  Hour 

There  are  rusty  locks,  and  dusty  bags, 

And  musty  phials,  and  fusty  rags, 

And  a  lusty  old  woman,  call'd  Thirsty  Nan, 

And  her  crusty  old  husband's  a  Hairy-faced  man! 


That   Hairy-faced   man   is  sallow   and   wan, 
And  his  great  thick  pigtail  is  wither'd  and  gone; 
And  he  cries,  "  Take  away  that  lubberly  chap 
That  sits  there  and  grins  with  his  head  in  his  lap!  " 
And  the  neighbors  say,  as  they  see  him  look  sick, 
"What  a  rum  old  covey  is  Hairy-faced  Dick!" 


That  Admiral,  Lady,  and  Hairy-faced  man 

May  say  what  they  please,  and  may  do  what  they  can ; 

But  one  things  seems  remarkably  clear, — 

They  may  die  to-morrow,  or  live  till  next  year, — 

But  wherever  they  live,  or  whenever  they  die, 

They'll  never  get  quit  of  young  Hamilton  Tighe! 


THE  SUPPER  SUPERSTITION  :  THOMAS  HOOD 
A  Pathetic  Ballad 

"  Oh    flesh,    flesh,    how    art    thou    fishified !  "—Mercutio. 

'Twas  twelve  o'clock  by  the  Chelsea  chimes, 
When  all  in  a  hungry  trim, 

Good  Mr.  Jupp  sat  down  to  sup 
With  wife,  and  Kate  and  Jim. 


The  Supper  Superstition  851 

Said  he,  "  Upon  this  dainty  cod 

How  bravely   I  shall  sup  " — 
When,   whiter  than   the  tablecloth, 

A  GHOST  came  rising  up! 

"  O  father  dear,  O  mother  dear, 

Dear  Kate,  and  brother  Jim — 
You  know  when  some  one  went  to  sea — 

Don't  cry — but  I  am  him! 

"  You  hope  some  day  with  fond  embrace 

To  greet  your  lonesome  Jack, 
But  oh,  I  am  come  here  to  say 

I'm  never  coming  back! 

"  From  Alexandria  we  set  sail, 

With  corn,  and  oil,  and  figs, 
But  steering  '  too  much  Sow,'  we  struck 

Upon  the  Sow  and  Pigs! 

"  The  ship  we  pumped  till  we  could  see 

Old  England  from  the  tops; 
When  down  she  went  with  all  our  hands, 

Right  in  the  Channel's  Chops. 

"  Just  give  a  look  in  Norey's  Chart, 

The  very  place  it  tells: 
I  think  it  says  twelve  fathom  deep, 
Clay  bottom,  mixed  with  shells. 

"  Well,  there  we  are  till  '  hands  aloft,' 

We  have  at  last  a  call, 
The  pug  I  had  for  brother  Jim, 

Kate's  parrot,  too,  and  all." 


86  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  But  oh,  my  spirit  cannot  rest 

In  Davy  Jones's  sod, 
Till  I've  appeared  to  you  and  said, 

'  Don't  sup  on  that  there  Cod ! 

"  You  live  on  land,  and  little  think 

What  passes  in  the  sea; 
Last  Sunday  week,  at  2  p.  M., 

That  Cod  was  picking  me! 

"  Those  oysters,  too,  that  look  so  plump, 
And  seem  so  nicely  done, 

They  put  my  corpse  in  many  shells, 
Instead  of  only  one. 

"  Oh,  do  not  eat  those  oysters,  then, 
And  do  not  touch  the  shrimps; 

When  I  was  in  my  briny  grave 

They  sucked  my  blood  like  imps! 

"  Don't  eat  what  brutes  would  never  eat, 
The  brutes  I  used  to  pat, 

They'll  know  the  smell  they  used  to  smell, 
Just  try  the  dog  and  cat !  " 

The  spirit  fled,  they  wept  his  fate, 

And  cried  Alas,  Alack! 
At  last  up  started  brother  Jim — 

"  Let's  try  if  Jack,  was  Jack!  " 

They  called  the  Dog,  they  called  the  Cat, 

The  little  Kitten,  too, 
And  down  they  put  the  Cod  and  sauce 

To  see  what  brutes  would  do. 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  87 

Old  Tray  licked  all  the  oysters  up, 

Puss  never  stood  at  crimps, 
But  munched  the  Cod — and  little  Kit 

Quite  feasted  on  the  Shrimps! 

The  thing  was  odd,  and  minus  Cod 
And  sauce,  they  stood  like  posts; 

Oh,  prudent  folks,  for  fear  of  hoax, 
Put  no  belief  in  Ghosts! 


THE    INGOLDSBY   PENANCE:   RICHARD    HARRIS 

BARHAM 

A  Legend  of  Palestine  and  West  Kent 

Out  and  spake  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
A  stalwart  knight,  I  ween,  was  he, 

"  Come  east,  come  west,     Come  lance  in  rest, 
Come  falchion  in  hand,  I'll  tickle  the  best 
Of  the  Soldan's  Chivalrie!" 

Oh,  they  came  west,  and  they  came  east, 
Twenty-four  Emirs  and  Sheiks  at  the  least, 

And    they   hammer'd    away     At    Sir    Ingoldsby 

Bray, 

Fall  back,  fall  edge,  cut,  thrust,  and  point, — 
But  he  topp'd  off  head,  and  he  lopp'd  off  joint; 

Twenty  and  three,     Of  high  degree, 
Lay  stark  and  stiff  on  the  crimson'd  lea, 
All — all  save  one — and  he  ran  up  a  tree ! 
"  Now  count  them,  my  Squire,  now  count  them  and 
see!" 


88  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Twenty  and  three !    Twenty  and  three ! — 
All  of  them  nobles  of  high  degree: 
There  they  be  lying  on  Ascalon  lea ! " 

Out  and  spake  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 

"  What  news?    What  news?    Come  tell  to  me! 
What  news?  what  news,  thou  little  Foot-page? — 
I've  been  whacking  the  foe  till  it  seems  an  age 

Sine  I  was  in  Ingoldsby  Hall  so  free! 
What  news?  what  news  from  Ingoldsby  Hall? 
Come  tell  me  now,  thou  page  so  small!  " 

"  O,  Hawk  and  Hound     Are  safe  and  sound, 
Beast  in  byre  and  Steed  in  stall; 

And  the  Watch-dog's  bark,     As  soon  as  it's  dark, 
Bays  wakeful  guard  around  Ingoldsby  Hall !  " 

— "  I  care  not  a  pound     For  Hawk  or  for  Hound, 
For  Steed  in  stall  or  for  Watch-dog's  bay. 

Fain  would  I  hear  Of  my  dainty  dear; 
How  fares  Dame  Alice,  my  Lady  gay  ?  " — 
Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray,  he  said  in  his  rage, 

"  What  news?  what  news?  thou  naughty  Foot- 
page." 

The  little  Foot-page  full  low  crouch 'd  he, 
And  he  doff'd  his  cap,  and  he  bended  his  knee, 
"  Now  lithe  and  listen,  Sir  Bray,  to  me : 
Lady  Alice  sits  lonely  in  bower  and  hall, 
Her  sighs  they  rise,  and  her  tears  they  fall. 

She  sits  alone,     And  she  makes  her  moan ; 

Dance  and  song,     She  considers  quite  wrong; 

Feast  and  revel  Mere  snares  of  the  devil; 
She  mendeth  her  hose,  and  she  crieth  '  Alack ! 
When  will  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  come  back?  '  " 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  89 

"  Thou  liest !  thou  liest !  thou  naughty  Foot-page, 
Full  loud  doth  thou  lie,  false  Page,  to  me! 

There  in  thy  breast,     'Neath  thy  silken  vest, 
What  scroll  is  that,  false  Page,  I  see?" 

Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  in  his  rage  drew  near, 
That  little  Foot-page,  he  blanch'd  with  fear; 

"  Now  where  may  the  Prior  of  Abingdon  lie? 
King  Richard's  confessor,  I  ween,  is  he, 
And  tidings  rare     To  him  do  I  bear, 
And  news  of  price  from  his  rich  Ab-bee !  " 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,  thou  naughty  Page ! 
No  learned  clerk  I  trow  am  I, 

But  well  I  ween     May  there  be  seen 
Dame  Alice's  hand  with  half  an  eye; 
Now  nay,  now  nay,  thou  naughty  Page, 
From  Abingdon  Abbey  comes  not  thy  news; 

Although  no  clerk,     Well  may  I  mark 
The  particular  turn  of  her  P's  and  Q's! 'r 

Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  in  his  fury  and  rage, 

By  the  back  of  the  neck  takes  that  little  Foot-page; 

The  scroll  he  seizes,     The  page  he  squeezes, 
And  buffets — and  pinches  his  nose  till  he  sneezes; — 
Then  he  cuts  with  his  dagger  the  silken  threads 
Which  they  used  in  those  days  'stead  of  little  Queen's 
heads. 

When  the  contents  of  the  scroll  met  his  view, 
Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  in  a  passion  grew, 
Backward  he  drew     His  mailed  shoe, 
And  he  kicked  that  naughty  Foot-page,  that  he  flew 
Like  a  cloth-yard  shaft  from  a  bended  yew, 
I  may  not  say  whither — I  never  knew. 


90  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Now  count  the  slain     Upon  Ascalon  plain — 
Go  count  them,  my  Squire,  go  count  them  again !  " 

"  Twenty  and  three !    There  they  be, 
Stiff  and  stark  on  that  crimson'd  lea! — 

Twenty  and  three? — Stay — let  me  see! 

Stretched  in  his  gore     There  lieth  one  more! 
By  the   Pope's  triple  crown  there  are  twenty  and 

four! 

Twenty-four  trunks  I  ween  are  there 
But  their  heads  and  their  limbs  are  no-body  knows 

where ! 

Ay,  twenty-four  corpses,  I  rede  there  be, 
Though  one  got  away,  and  ran  up  a  tree !  " 

"  Look  nigher,  look  nigher,     My  trusty  Squire !  " 
"  One  is  the  corse  of  a  bare-footed  Friar!  " 

Out  and  spake  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,  King  Richard,"  quoth  he, 

"  Now  Heav'n  thee  save,    A  boon  I  crave, 
A  boon,  Sir  King,  on  my  bended  knee; 

A  year  and  a  day     Have  I  been  away, 
King  Richard,  from  Ingoldsby  Hall  so  free; 
Dame  Alice  she  sits  there  in  lonely  guise, 
And  she  makes  her  moan,  and  she  sobs  and  she  sighs, 
And  tears  like  rain-drops  fall  from  her  eyes, 
And  she  darneth  her  hose,  and  she  crieth  '  Alack ! 
Oh,  when  will  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  come  back?  ' 
A  boon,  a  boon,  my  liege,"  quoth  he, 
"  Fair  Ingoldsby  Hall  I  fain  would  see !  " 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray," 
King  Richard  said  right  graciously, 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  91 

"  Of  all  in  my  host    That  I  love  the  most, 
I  love  none  better,  Sir  Bray,  than  thee! 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  thou  hast  my  boon; 
But  mind   you   make   haste,   and   come   back   again 


soon 


FYTTE   II 


Pope  Gregory  sits  in  St.  Peter's  chair, 
Pontiff  proud,  I  ween,  is  he, 
And  a  belted  Knight,     In  armour  dight, 

Is  begging  a  boon  on  his  bended  knee, 

With  sighs  of  grief  and  sounds  of  woe, 

Featly  he  kisseth  his  Holiness'  toe. 
"  Now  pardon,  Holy  Father,  I  crave, 

0  Holy  Father,  pardon  and  grace! 

In  my  fury  and  rage    A  little  Foot-page 
I  have  left,  I  fear  me,  in  evil  case: 

A  scroll  of  shame    From  a  faithless  dame 
Did  that  naughty  Foot-page  to  a  paramour  bear: 

1  gave  him  a  '  lick  '    With  a  stick,    And  a  kick, 
That  sent  him — I  can't  tell  your  Holiness  where ! 
Had  he  as  many  necks  as  hairs, 

He  had  broken  them  all  down  those  perilous»stairs !  " 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  I  say  to  thee; 

A  soldier,  I  trow,    Of  the  Cross  art  thou; 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  from  thy  bended  knee! 
Ill  it  seems  that  soldier  true 
Of  Holy  Church  should  vainly  sue: — 
— Foot-pages  they  are  by  no  means  rare, 
A  thriftless  crew,  I  ween,  be  they; 

Well  mote  we  spare    A  Page — or  a  pair, 
For  the  matter  of  that — Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 


92  The  Haunted  Hour 

But  stout  and  true    Soldiers  like  you, 
Grow  scarcer  and  scarcer  every  day! — 

Be  prayers  for  the  dead    Duly  read, 
Let  a  mass  be  sung,  and  a  pater  be  said : 
So  may  your  qualms  of  conscience  cease, 
And  the  little  Foot-page  shall  rest  in  peace !  " 

"  Now  pardon,  Holy  Father,  I  crave. 

0  Holy  Father,   pardon  and  grace! 

Dame  Alice,  my  wife,    The  bane  of  my  life, 

1  have  left,  I  fear  me,  in  evil  case! 
A  scroll  of  shame  in  my  rage  I  tore, 
Which  that  caitiff  Page  to  a  paramour  bore; 
'Twere  bootless  to  tell  how  I  storm'd  and  swore; 
Alack!  and  alack!  too  surely  I  knew 

The  turn  of  each  P,  and  the  tail  of  each  Q, 
And  away  to  Ingoldsby  Hall  I  flew! 

Dame  Alice  I  found, — She  sank  on  the  ground,- 
I  twisted  her  neck  till  I  twisted  it  round! 
With  jibe  and  jeer  and  mock  and  scoff, 
I  twisted  it  on — till  I  twisted  it  off! — 
All  the  King's  Doctors  and  all  the  King's  Men 
Can't  put  fair  Alice's  head  on  agen!" 

"  Well-a-day !  well-a-day!  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
Why  really — I  hardly  know  what  to  say: — 
Foul  sin,  I  trow,  a  fair  Ladye  to  slay, 
Because  she's  perhaps  been  a  little  too  gay. — 
— Monk  must  chaunt  and  Nun  must  pray; 
For  each  mass  they  sing,  and  each  pray'r  they  say, 

For  a  year  and  a  day,     Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray 
A  fair  rose-noble  must  duly  pay! 
So  may  his  qualms  of  conscience  cease, 
And  the  soul  of  Dame  Alice  may  rest  in  peace !  " 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  93 

"  Now  pardon,  Holy  Father,  I  crave, 

0  Holy  Father,  pardon  and  grace! 

No  power  could  save     That  paramour  knave J 

1  left  him,  I  wot,  in  evil  case! 

There  midst  the  slain     Upon  Ascalon  plain, 
Unburied,  I  trow,  doth  his  body  remain 
His  legs  lie  here  and  his  arms  lie  there, 
And    his    head    lies — I    can't    tell    your    Holiness 
where!" 

"Now  out  and  alas!  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
Foul  sin  it  were,  thou  doughty  Knight, 
To  hack  and  to  hew     A  champion  true 

Of  holy  Church  in  such  pitiful  plight! 

Foul  sin  her  warriors  so  to  slay, 

When  they're  scarcer  and  scarcer  every  day! — 

A  chauntry  fair,     And  of  Monks  a  pair, 
To  pray  for  his  soul  for  ever  and  aye, 
Thou  must  duly  endow,  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray, 
And  fourteen  marks  by  the  year  thou  must  pay 

For  plenty  of  lights     To  burn  there  o'  nights — 
None  of  your  rascally  '  dips ' — but  sound, 
Round,  ten-penny  moulds  of  four  to  the  pound ; — 
And  a  shirt  of  the  roughest  and  coarsest  hair 
For  a  year  and  a  day,  Sir  Ingoldsby,  wear! — 
So  may  your  qualms  of  conscience  cease, 
And  the  soul  of  the  Soldier  shall  rest  in  peace !  " 

"  Now,  nay,  Holy  Father ;  now  nay,  now  nay ! 
Less  penance  may  serve!  "  quoth  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray. 
"  No  champion  free  of  the  Cross  was  he ; 
No  belted  Baron  of  high  degree; 

No  Knight  nor  Squire     Did  there  expire; 
He  was,  I  trow,  a  bare-footed  Friar! 
And  the  Abbot  of  Abingdon  long  may  wait, 


94  The  Haunted  Hour 

With  his  monks  around  him,  and  early  and  late, 
May  look  from  loop-hole,  and  turret,  and  gate, 
He  hath  lost  his  Prior — his  Prior  his  pate !  " 

"  Now  Thunder  and  turf !  "  Pope  Gregory  said, 
And  his  hair  raised  his  triple  crown  right  off  his 

head — 

"  Now  Thunder  and  turf!  and  out  and  alas! 
A  horrible  thing  has  come  to  pass! 
What !  cut  off  the  head  of  the  Reverend  Prior, 
And  say  he  was  '  only  (!!!)  a  bare-footed  Friar! ' — 

'  What  Baron  or  Squire,     Or  Knight  of  the  shire 
Is  half  so  good  as  a  holy  Friar  ?  ' 

Ot  turpissimef  Vir  nequissimel 
Sceleratissime! — quissime! — issimef 
Never,  I  trow,  have  the  Servi  servorum 

Had  before  'em    Such  a  breach  of  decorum, 
Such  a  gross  violation  of  morum  bonorum, 
And  won't  have  again  sacula  steculorum! — 

Come  hither  to  me,    My  Cardinals  three, 

My  Bishops  in  partibus,     Masters  in  Artibus, 

Hither  to  me,  A.  B.  and  D.  D., 

Doctors  and   Proctors  of  every  degree! 
Go  fetch  me  a  book,  go  fetch  me  a  bell 
As  big  as  a  dustman's ! — and  a  candle  as  well — 
I'll  send  him  where — good  manners  won't  let 
me  tell!" 

— "  Pardon  and  grace ! — now  pardon  and  grace !  " 
— Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  fell  flat  on  his  face — 
"  Mea  culpa! — in  sooth  I'm  in  pitiful  case. 
Peccavi!  peccavi! — I've  done  every  wrong! 
But  my  heart  it  is  stout  and  my  arm  it  is  strong, 
And  I'll  fight  for  Holy  Church  all  the  day  long; 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  95 

And  the  Ingoldsby  lands  are  broad  and  fair, 
And  they're  here  and  they're  there  and  I  can't  tell 

you  where, 

And  the  Holy  Church  shall  come  in  for  her  share !  " 
Pope  Gregory  paused  and  he  sat  himself  down, 
And  he  somewhat  relaxed  his  terrible  frown, 
And  his  Cardinals  three  they  picked  up  his  crown. 

"  Now    if    it    be    so    that    you    own    you've    been 

wrong, 

And  your  heart  is  so  stout  and  your  arm  is  so  strong, 
And  you  really  will  fight  like  a  trump  all  day  long ; — 
If  the  Ingoldsby  lands  do  lie  here  and  there, 
And  Holy  Church  shall  come  in  for  her  share, — 

Why,  my  Cardinals  three,     You'll  agree     With 

me, 

That  it  gives  a  new  turn  to  the  whole  affair, 
And  I  think  that  the  Penitent  need  not  despair! 
— If  it  be  so,  as  you  seem  to  say, 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray! 
An  Abbey  so  fair  Sir  Bray  shall  found, 
Whose  innermost  wall's  encircling  bound 
Shall  take  in  a  couple  of  acres  of  ground; 
And  there  in  that  Abbey,  all  the  year  round, 
A  full  choir  of  monks  and  a  full  choir  of  nuns, 

And   Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray,     Without  delay, 

Shall  hie  him  again     To  Ascalon  plain, 
And  gather  the  bones  of  the  foully  slain ; 
And  shall  place  said  bones,  with  all  possible  care, 
In  an  elegant  shrine  in  his  abbey  so  fair; 

And  plenty  of  lights  shall  be  there  o'  nights — 
None  of  your  rascally  '  dips,'  but  sound, 
Best  superfine  wax-wicks,  four  to  the  pound; 

And  Monk  and  Nun     Shall  pray,  each  one, 
For  the  soul  of  the  Prior  of  Abingdon! 


96  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray,  so  bold  and  so  brave, 
Never  shall  wash  himself,  comb  or  shave, 
Nor  adorn  his  body,     Nor  drink  gin-toddy, 
Nor  indulge  in  a  pipe —    But  shall  dine  upon 

tripe 

And  blackberries  gathered  before  they  are  ripe, 
And  forever  abhor,  renounce  and  abjure 
Rum,  hollands,  and  brandy,  wine,  punch  and 
liqueur!  " 

(Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray     Here  gave  way 
To  a  feeling  which  prompted  a  word  profane, 
But  he  swallowed  it  down,  by  an  effort,  again, 
And  His  Holiness  luckily  fancied  his  gulp  a 
Mere  repetition  of  O  mea  culpa!) 

"  Thrice  three  times  on  Candlemas-day, 

Between  Vespers  and  Compline,  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray 

Shall  run  round  the  Abbey,  as  best  he  may, 

Subjecting  his  back    To  thump  and  to  thwack, 
Well  and  truly  laid  on  by  a  bare-footed  Friar, 
With  a  stout  cat  o'  ninetails  of  whip-cord  and  wire, 
And  not  he  nor  his  heir     Shall  take,  use  or  bear, 
Any  more  from  this  day,    The  surname  of  Bray, 
As  being  dishonour'd,  but  all  issue  male  he  has 
Shall,  with  himself,  go  henceforth  by  an  alias! 
So  his  qualms  of  conscience  at  length  shall  cease, 
And  Page,  Dame  and  Prior  shall  rest  in  peace !  " 

Sir  Ingoldsby  (now  no  longer  Bray) 
Is  off  like  a  shot  away  and  away, 

Over  the  brine     To  far  Palestine, 
To  rummage  and  hunt  over  Ascalon  plain 
For  the  unburied  bones  of  his  victim  slain. 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  97 

"  Look  out,  my  Squire,     Look  nigher  and  nigher, 
Look  out  for  the  corpse  of  a  bare-footed  Friar! 
And  pick  up  the  arms  and  the  legs  of  the  dead, 
And  pick  up  his  body  and  pick  up  his  head !  " 


FYTTE   III 

Ingoldsby  Abbey  is  fair  to  see, 
It  hath  manors  a  dozen,  and  royalties  three, 
With  right  of  free-warren  (whatever  that  be)  ; 
Rich  pastures  in  front,  and  green  woods  in  the  rear, 
All  in  full  leaf  at  the  right  time  of  year; 
About  Christmas  or  so,  they  fall  into  the  sear, 
And  the  prospect,  of  course,  becomes  rather  more 

drear; 

But  it's  really  delightful  in  spring-time, — and  near 
The  great  gate  Father  Thames  rolls  sun-bright  and 

clear. 

Cobham  woods  to  the  right, — on  the  opposite  shore 
Landon  Hill  in  the  distance,  ten  miles  off  or  more; 
Then  you've  Milton  and  Gravesend  behind — and 

before 
You  can  see  almost  all  the  way  down  to  the  Nore. — 

So  charming  a  spot,     It's  rarely  one's  lot 
To  see,  and  when  seen  it's  as  rarely  forgot. 

Yes,  Ingoldsby  Abbey  is  fair  to  see, 

And  its  Monks  and  its  Nuns  are  fifty  and  three, 

And  there  they  all  stand  each  in  their  degree, 

Drawn  up  in  the  front  of  their  sacred  abode, 

Two  by  two  in  their  regular  mode, 

While  a  funeral  comes  down  the  Rochester  road, 

Palmers  twelve,  from  a  foreign  strand, 

Cockle  in  hat  and  staff  in  hand, 

Come  marching  in  pairs,  a  holy  band! 


98  The  Haunted  Hour 

Little  boys  twelve,  dressed  all  in  white, 
Each  with  his  brazen  censer  bright, 
And  singing  away  with  all  his  might, 
Follow  the  Palmers — a  goodly  sight; 

Next  high  in  air     Twelve  Yeomen  bear 
On  their  sturdy  backs,  with  a  good  deal  of  care, 
A  patent  sarcophagus  firmly  rear'd 
Of  Spanish  mahogany  (not  veneer'd), 
And  behind  walks  a  Knight  with  a  very  long  beard. 

Close  by  his  side    Is  a  Friar,  supplied 
With  a  stout  cat  o'  ninetails  of  tough  cow-hide, 

While  all  sorts  of  queer  men 

Bring  up  the  rear — Men- 
at-arms,  Nigger  captives,  and  Bow-men  and  Spear- 
men. 

It  boots  not  to  tell    What  you'll  guess  very  well, 
How  some  sang  the  requiem,  some  toll'd  the  bell; 

Suffice  it  to  say,    'Twas  on  Candlemas-day 
The  procession  I  speak  of  reached  the  Sacellum: 

And  in  lieu  of  a  supper     The  Knight  on  his 

crupper 
Received  the  first  taste  of  the  Father's  flagellum; — 

That,  as  chronicles  tell,     He  continued  to  dwell 
All  the  rest  of  his  days  in  the  Abbey  he'd  founded, 
By  the  pious  of  both  sexes  ever  surrounded, 
And,    partaking   the   fare   of   the   Monks   and   the 

Nuns, 

Ate  the  cabbage  alone  without  touching  the  buns ; 
— That  year  after  year,  having  run  round  the  Quad 
With  his  back,  as  enjoin'd  him,  exposed  to  the  rod, 
Having  not  only  kissed  it,  but  bless'd  it  and  thank'd 

it,  he 
Died,  as  all  thought  in  the  odour  of  sanctity, 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  99 

When, — strange  to  relate !  and  you'll  hardly  believe 
What  I'm  going  to  tell  you, — next  Candlemas  Eve 
The  Monks  and  the  Nuns  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
Tumble,  all  of  them,  out  of  their  bed  in  affright, 
Alarm'd   by  the  bawls,     And   the  calls  and   the 

squalls 
Of  some  one  who  seemed  running  all  round  the  walls ! 

Looking  out,  soon     By  the  light  of  the  moon 
There  appears  most  distinctly  to  ev'ry  one's  view, 
And  making,  as  seems  to  them,  all  this  ado, 
The  form  of  a  Knight  with  a  beard  like  a  Jew, 
As  black  as  if  steep'd  in  that  "  Matchless  "  of 

Hunt's, 

And  so  bushy,  it  would  not  disgrace  Mr.  Muntz ; 
A  bare-footed  Friar  stands  behind  him,  and  shakes 
A  flagellum,  whose  lashes  appear  to  be  snakes; 
While,  more  terrible  still,  the  astounded  beholders 
Perceive  the  Friar  has  NO  HEAD  ON  HIS  SHOULDERS, 
But  is  holding  his  pate,     In  his  left  hand,  out 

straight 

As  if  by  a  closer  inspection  to  find 
Where  to  get  the  best  cut  at  his  victim  behind, 
With  the  aid  of  a  small  "  bull-eye  lantern," — as 

placed 

By  our  own  new  police, — in  a  belt  round  his  waist. 
All  gaze  with  surprise,     Scarce  believing  their 

eyes, 
When  the  Knight  makes  a  start  like  a  race-horse  and 

flies 

From  his  headless  tormentor,  repeating  his  cries, — 
In  vain, — for  the  Friar  to  his  skirts  closely  sticks, 
"  Running  after  him,"  so  said  the  Abbot, — "  like 

Bricks!" 


IOO  The  Haunted  Hour 

Thrice  three  times  did  the  Phantom  Knight 
Course  round  the  Abbey  as  best  he  might 
Be-thwack'd  and  be-smack'd  by  the  headless  Sprite, 
While  his  shrieks  so  piercing  made  all  hearts  thrill,- 
Then  a  whoop  and  a  halloo, — and  all  was  still ! 


Ingoldsby  Abbey  has  passed  away, 

And  at  this  time  of  day     One  can  hardly  survey 
Any  traces  or  track,  save  a  few  ruins,  grey 
With  age,  and  fast  mouldering  into  decay, 
Of  the  structure  once  built  by  Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray ; 
But  still  there  are  many  folks  living  who  say 
That  on  every  Candlemas  Eve,  the  Knight, 

Accoutred,  and  dight     In  his  armour  bright, 
With  his  thick  black  beard, — and  the  clerical  Sprite, 
With  his  head  in  his  hand,  and  his  lantern  alight, 
Run  round  the  spot  where  the  old  Abbey  stood, 
And  are  seen  in  the  neighboring  glebe-land  and  wood ; 
More  especially  still,  if  it's  stormy  and  windy, 
You  may  hear  them  for  miles  kicking  up  their  wild 
shindy ; 

And  that  once  in  a  gale    Of  wind,  sleet  and  hail 
They  frighten'd  the  horses  and  upset  the  mail. 

What  'tis  breaks  the  rest     Of  those  souls  unblest 
Would  now  be  a  thing  rather  hard  to  be  guess.'d, 
Though  some  say  the  Squire,  on  his  death-bed,  con- 

fess'd 
That  on  Ascalon  plain,     When  the  bones  of  the 

slain 

Were  collected  that  day,  and  packed  up  in  a.  chest, 
Caulk'd  and  made  water-tight, 
By  command  of  the  Knight, 


The  Ingoldsby  Penance  IOI 

Though  the  legs  and  the  arms  they'd  got  all  pretty 
right, 

And  the  body  itself  in  a  decentish  plight, 

Yet  the  Friar's  Pericranium  was  nowhere  in  sight ; 

So,  to  save  themselves  trouble,  they  pick'd  up  in- 
stead, 

And  popp'd  on  the  shoulders  a  Saracen's  Head! 

Thus  the  Knight  in  the  terms  of  his  penance  had 
fail'd, 

And  the  Pope's  absolution,  of  course,  naught  avail'd. 

Now,   though   this  might   be,     It   don't  seem   to 

agree 

With  one  thing  which,  I  own,  is  a  poser  to  me, — 
I  mean,  as  the  miracle,  wrought  at  the  shrine 
Containing  the  bones  brought  from  far  Palestine 
Were  so  great  and  notorious,  'tis  hard  to  combine 
This  fact  with  the  reason  these  people  assign, 
Or  suppose  that  the  head  of  the  murder'd  Divine 
Could    be    aught   but    what   Yankees    would    call 

"  genu-ine." 

'Tis  a  very  nice  question — but  be't  as  it  may, 
The  Ghost  of  Sir  Ingoldsby   (ci-devant  Bray), 
It  is  boldly  affirm'd  by  the  folks  great  and  small 
About    Milton    and    Chaulk,    and    round    Cobham 

Hall, 

Still  on  Candlemas-day  haunts  the  old  ruin'd  wall 
And  that  many  have  seen  him,  and  more  heard  him 

squall. 

So  I  think,  when  the  facts  of  the  case  you  recall, 
My  inference,  reader,  you'll  fairly  forestall, 

Viz:   that,   spite  of   the  hope     Held   out  by  the 

Pope, 
Sir  Ingoldsby  Bray  was  d d  after  all ! 


102  The  Haunted  Hour 

MORAL 

Foot-pages,  and  Servants  of  ev'ry  degree, 

In  livery  or  out  of  it,  listen  to  me! 

See  what  comes  of  lying! — don't  join  in  the  league 

To  humbug  your  master  or  aid  an  intrigue ! 

Ladies!  married  and  single,  from  this  understand 

How  foolish  it  is  to  send  letters  by  hand ! 

Don't  stand  for  the  sake  of  a  penny, — but  when  you 

Ve  a  billet  to  send     To  a  lover  or  friend, 
Put  it  into  the  post,  and  don't  cheat  the  revenue ! 

Reverend  gentlemen !  you  who  are  given  to  roam, 
Don't  keep  up  a  soft  correspondence  at  home! 
But  while  you're  abroad  lead  respectable  lives; 
Love  your  neighbours,  and  welcome, — but  don't  love 

their  wives! 

And,  as  bricklayers  cry  from  the  tiles  and  the  leads 
When  they're  shovelling  the  snow  off,  "  TAKE  CARE 

OF  YOUR  HEADS"! 

Knights ! — whose  hearts  are  so  stout,  and  whose  arms 
are  so  strong, 

Learn, — to  twist  a  wife's  neck  is  decidedly  wrong! 

If  your  servants-  offend  you,  or  give  themselves  airs, 

Rebuke  them — but  mildly — don't  kick  them  down- 
stairs ! 

To  "  Poor  Richard's  "  homely  old  proverb  attend, 

"  If  you  want  matters  well  managed,  Go ! — if  not, 
Send!" 

A  servant's  too  often  a  negligent  elf ! 

— If  it's  business  of  consequence,  DO  IT  YOURSELF  ! 


Pompey's  Ghost  103 

The  state  of  society  seldom   requires 

People  now  to  bring  home  with  them  unburied 

Friars, 
But  they  sometimes  do  bring  home  an  inmate  for 

life; 
Now — don't  do  that  by  proxy! — but  choose  your 

own  wife! 
For  think  how  annoying  'twould  be,  when  you're 

wed, 

To  find  in  your  bed,    On  the  pillow,  instead 
Of  the  sweet  face  you  look  for — A  SARACEN'S  HEAD! 


POMPEY'S  GHOST:  THOMAS  HOOD 

'Twas  twelve  o'clock,  not  twelve  at  night, 

But  twelve  o'clock  at  noon; 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  bright 

And  not  the  silver  moon. 
A  proper  time  for  friends  to  call, 

Or  pots,  or  penny-post; 
When  lo!  as  Phoebe  sat  at  work, 

She  saw  her  Pompey's  ghost! 

Now  when  a  female  has  a  call 

From  people  that  are  dead, 
Like  Paris  ladies,  she  receives 

Her  visitors  in  bed. 
But  Pompey's  spirit  would  not  come 

Like  spirits  that  are  white, 
Because  he  was  a  Blackamoor, 

And  wouldn't  show  at  night! 


IO4  The  Haunted  Hour 

But  of  all  unexpected  things 

That  happen  to  us  here, 
The  most  unpleasant  is  a  rise 

In  what  is  very  dear. 
So  Phoebe  screamed  an  awful  scream 

To  prove  the  seaman's  text, 
That  after  black  appearances, 

White  squalls  will  follow  next. 

"O  Phoebe  dear!    Oh,  Phoebe  dear! 

Don't  go  and  scream  or  faint; 
You  think  because  I'm  black,  I  am 

The  Devil,  but  I  ain't! 
Behind  the  heels  of  Lady  Lambe 

I  walked  while  I  had  breath, 
But  that  is  past,  and  I  am  now 

A-walking  after  death! 

"  No  murder,  though,  I  come  to  tell, 

By  base  and  bloody  crime; 
So,  Phoebe  dear,  put  off  your  fits 

To  some  more  fitting  time. 
No  coroner,  like  a  boatswain's  mate, 

My  body  need  attack, 
With  his  round  dozen  to  find  out 

Why  I  have  died  so  black. 

"  One  Sunday,  shortly  after  tea, 

My  skin  began  to  burn, 
As  if  I  had  in  my  inside 

A  heater  like  a  urn. 
Delirious  in  the  night  I  grew, 

And  as  I  lay  in  bed, 
They  say  I  gathered  all  the  wool 

You  see  upon  my  head. 


Pompey's  Ghost  105 

"  His  lordship  for  his  doctor  sent, 

My  treatment  to  begin; 
I  wish  that  he  had  called  him  out 

Before  he  called  him  in! 
For  though  to  physic  he  was  bred, 

And  passed  at  Surgeons'  Hall, 
To  make  his  post  a  sinecure, 

He  never  cured  at  all! 

"  The  Doctor  looked  about  my  breast 

And  then  about  my  back, 
And  then  he  shook  his  head  and  said,  • 

'  Your  case  looks  very  black.' 
At  first  he  sent  me  hot  cayenne, 

And  then  gamboge  to  swallow. 
But  still  my  fever  would  not  turn 

To  scarlet  or  to  yellow! 

"  With  madder  and  with  turmeric, 

He  made  his  next  attack; 
But  neither  he  nor  all  his  drugs 

Could  stop  my  dying  black. 
At  last  I  got  so  sick  of  life, 

And  sick  of  being  dosed, 
One  Monday  morning  I  gave  up 

My  physic  and  the  ghost! 

"  Oh,  Phoebe  dear,  what  pain  it  was 

To  sever  every  tie! 
You  know  black  beetles  feel  as  much 

As  giants  when  they  die. 
And  if  there  is  a  bridal  bed, 

Or  bride  of  little  worth, 
It's  lying  in  a  bed  of  mould, 

Along  with  Mother  Earth, 


io6  The  Haunted  Hour 

"Alas!     Some  happy,  happy  day, 

In  church  I  hoped  to  stand, 
And  like  a  muff  of  sable  skin 

Receive  your  lily  hand. 
But  sternly  with  that  piebald  match, 

My  fate  untimely  clashes; 
For  now,  like  Pompey-double-i, 

I'm  sleeping  in  my  ashes! 

"And  now  farewell!  a  last  farewell! 

I'm  wanted  down  below, 
And  have  but  time  enough  to  add 

One  word  before  I  go — 
In  mourning  crepe  and  bombazine 

Ne'er  spend  your  precious  pelf; 
Don't  go  in  black  for  me — for  I 

Can  do  it  for  myself. 

"  Henceforth  within  my  grave  I  rest, 

But  Death,  who  there  inherits, 
Allowed  my  spirit  leave  to  come, 

You  seemed  so  near  your  spirits: 
But  do  not  sigh,  and  do  not  cry, 

By  grief  too  much  engrossed, 
Nor  for  a  ghost  of  color  turn 

The  color  of  a  ghost! 

"Again,  farewell,  my  Phoebe  dear! 

Once  more  a  last  adieu! 
For  I  must  make  myself  as  scarce 

As  swans  of  sable  hue." 
From  black  to  gray,  from  gray  to  nought 

The  shape  began  to  fade — 
And  like  an  egg,  though  not  so  white, 

The  ghost  was  newly  laid !  " 


The  Ghost  107 


THE  GHOST  :  THOMAS  HOOD 
A  Very  Serious  Ballad 

In  Middle  Row,  some  years  ago, 
There  lived  one  Mr.  Brown; 

And  many  folks  considered  him 
The  stoutest  man  in  town. 

But  Brown  and  stout  will  both  wear  out- 
One  Friday  he  died  hard, 

And  left  a  widow'd  wife  to  mourn 
At  twenty  pence  a  yard. 

Now  widow  B.  in  two  short  months 
Thought  mourning  quite  a  tax; 

And  wished,  like  Mr.  Wilberforce, 
To  manumit  her  blacks. 

With  Mr.  Street  she  soon  was  sweet; 

The  thing  came  thus  about: 
She  asked  him  in  at  home,  and  then 

At  church,  he  asked  her  out! 

Assurance  such  as  this  the  man 
In  ashes  could  not  stand ; 

So  like  a  Phoenix  he  rose  up 

Against  the  Hand  in  Hand! 

One  dreary  night  the  angry  sprite 

Appeared  before  her  view; 
It  came  a  little  after  one, 
•  But  she  was  after  two! 


io8  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  B.,  O  Mrs.  B., 

Are  these  your  sorrow's  deeds, 

Already  getting  up  a  flame 

To  burn  your  widows'  weeds? 

"  It's  not  so  long  since  I  have  left 
For  aye  the  mortal  scene; 

My  memory — like  Rogers's — 

Should  still  be  bound  in  green! 

"Yet  if  my  face  you  still  retrace 
I  almost  have  a  doubt — 

I'm  like  an  old  Forget-Me-Not 
With  all  the  leaves  torn  out! 

"  To  think  that  on  that  finger-joint 
Another  pledge  should  cling; 

O  Bess!  upon  my  very  soul 

It  struck  like  '  Knock  and  Ring.' 

"  A  ton  of  marble  on  my  breast' 
Can't  hinder  my  return; 

Your  conduct,  ma'am,  has  set  my  blood 
A-boiling  in  its  urn! 

"  Remember,  oh,  remember  how 
The  marriage  rite  did  run, — 

If  ever  we  one  flesh  should  be 
'Tis  now — when  I  have  none! 

"  And  you,  Sir — once  a  bosom  friend — 
Of  perjured  faith  convict, 

As  ghostly  toe  can  give  no  blow, 
Consider  yourself  kicked. 


Mary's  Ghost  109 

"  A  hollow  voice  is  all  I  have, 

But  this  I  tell  you  plain? 
Marry  come  up!  you  marry,  ma'am, 

And  I'll  come  up  again." 

More  he  had  said,  but  chanticleer 
The  spritely  shade  did  shock 

With  sudden  crow — and  off  he  went 
Like  fowling  piece  at  cock! 


MARY'S  GPJOST  :  THOMAS  HOOD 
A  Pathetic  Ballad 

'Twas  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
To  sleep  young'  William  tried, 

When  Mary's  ghost  came  stealing  in, 
And  stood  at  his  bedside. 

"O  William  dear!    O  William  dear! 

My  rest  eternal  ceases; 
Alas!  my  everlasting  peace 

Is  broken  into  pieces. 

"  I  thought  the  last  of  all  my  cares 

Would  end  with  my  last  minute; 

But  though  I  went  to  my  long  home 
I  didn't  stay  long  in  it. 

"The  body-snatchers  they  have  come 
And  made  a  snatch  at  me; 

It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  be! 


no  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  You  thought  that  I  was  buried  deep, 
Quite  decent-like  and  chary, 

But  from  her  grave,  in  Mary-Bone, 

They've  come  and  boned  your  Mary. 

"  The  arm  that  used  to  take  your  arm 
Is  took  to  Doctor  Vyse; 

And  both  my  legs  are  gone  to  walk 
The  hospital  at  Guy's. 

"  I  vowed  that  you  should  have  my  hand, 
But  Fate  gives  us  denial; 

You'll  find  it  there,  at  Doctor  Bell's, 
In  spirits  and  a  phial. 

"  As  for  my  feet,  the  little  feet 
You  used  to  find  so  pretty, 

There's  one,  I  know,  in  Bedford  Row, 
The  T'other's  in  the  City. 

"  I  can't  tell  where  my  head  is  gone, 
But  Doctor  Carpue  can; 

As  for  my  trunk,  it's  all  packed  up 
To  go  by  Pickford's  van. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  to  Mr.  P., 
And  save  me  such  a  ride; 

I  don't  half  like  the  outside  place 
They've  took  for  my  inside. 

"  The  cock  it  crows — I  must  be  gone! 

My  William,  we  must  part! 
But  I'll  be  yours  in  death,  altho' 

Sir  Astley  has  my  heart. 


The  Superstitious  Ghost  III 

"  Don't  go  to  weep  upon  my  grave, 

And  think  that  there  I  be; 
They  haven't  left  an  atom  there 

Of  my  anatomic." 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  GHOST  :  ARTHUR 

GUITERMAN 

I'm  such  a  quiet  little  ghost, 

Demure  and   inoffensive, 
The  other  spirits  say   I'm  most 

Absurdly    apprehensive. 

Through  all  the  merry  hours  of  night 

I'm  uniformly  cheerful; 
I  love  the  dark;  but  in  the  light, 

I  own  I'm  rather  fearful. 

Each  dawn  I  cower  down  in  bed, 
In  every  brightness  seeing 

That  weird  uncanny  form  of  dread — 
An  awful  Human  Being! 

Of  course  I'm  told  they  can't  exist, 
That  Nature  would  not  let  them: 

But  Willy  Spook,  the  Humanist, 
Declares  that  he  has  met  them! 

He  says  they  do  not  glide  like  us, 

But  walk  in  eerie  paces; 
They're  solid,  not  diaphanous, 

With  arms!  and  legs!!  and  faces!!! 


112  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  some  are  beggars,  some  are  kings, 
Some  have  and  some  are  wanting, 

They  squander  time  in  doing  things, 
Instead  of  simply  haunting.  « 

They  talk  of  "  art,"  the  horrid  crew, 
And  things  they  call  "  ambitions." — 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  as  well  as  you 
They're  only  superstitions. 

But  should  the  dreadful  day  arrive 
When,  starting  up,  I  see  one, 

I'm  sure  'twill  scare  me  quite  alive; 
And  then — Oh,  then  I'll  be  one! 


DAVE  LILLY  :  JOYCE  KILMER 

There's  a  brook  on  the  side  of  Greylock  that  used  to  be 

full  of  trout, 
But  there's  nothing  there  now  but  minnows;  they  say 

it  is  all  fished  out. 
I  fished  there  many  a  Summer  day  some  twenty  years 

ago, 
And  I  never  quit  without  getting  a  mess  of  a  dozen  or  so. 

There  was  a  man,  Dave  Lilly,  who  lived  on  the  North 

Adams  road, 
And  he  spent  all  his  time  fishing,  while  his  neighbors 

reaped  and  sowed. 
He  was  the  luckiest  fisherman  in  the  Berkshire  hills,  I 

think. 
And  when  he  didn't  go  fishing  he'd  sit  in  the  tavern  and 

drink. 


Dave  Lilly  113 

Well,  Dave  is  dead  and  buried  and  nobody  cares  very 

much; 
They  have  no  use  in  Grey  lock  for  drunkards  and  loafers 

and  such, 
But  I  always  liked  Dave  Lilly,  he  was  pleasant  as  you 

could  wish, 
He  was  shiftless  and  good-for-nothing,  but  he  certainly 

could  fish. 

The  other  night  I  was  walking  up  the  hill  from  Will- 

iamstown 
And  I  came  to  the  brook  I  mentioned,  and   I  stopped 

on  the  bridge  and  sat  down. 
I  looked  at  the  blackened  water  with  its  little  flecks  of 

white, 
And   I  heard  it  ripple  and  whisper  in  the  still  of  the 

Summer  night. 

And  after  I'd  been  there  a  minute  it  seemed  to  me  I  could 

feel 
The  presence  of  someone  near  me,  and  I  heard  the  hum 

of  a  reel. 
And  the  water  was  churned  and  broken,  and  something 

was  brought  to  land 
By  a  twist  and  a  flirt  of  a  shadowy  rod  in  a  deft  and 

shadowy  hand. 

I    scrambled    down    to    the    brookside    and    hunted    all 

about ; 
There  wasn't  a  sign  of  a  fisherman ;  there  wasn't  a  sign  of 

a  trout. 

But  I  heard  somebody  chuckle  behind  the  hollow  oak 
And  I  got  a  whiff  of  tobacco  like  Lilly  used  to  smoke. 


114  The  Haunted  Hour 

It's  fifteen  years,  they  tell  me,  since  anyone  fished  that 

brook ; 
And  there's  nothing  in  it  but  minnows  that  nibble  the 

bait  off  your  hook. 

But  before  the  sun  has  risen  and  after  the  moon  has  set 
I  know  that  it's  full  of  ghostly  trout  for  Lilly's  ghost  to 

get. 

I  guess  I'll  go  to  the  tavern  and  get  a  bottle  of  rye 
And  leave  it  down  by  the  hollow  oak,  where  Lilly's  ghost 

went  by. 

I  meant  to, go  up  on  the  hillside  and  try  to  find  his  grave 
And  put  some  flowers  on  it — but  this  will  be  better  for 

Dave. 


MARTIN  :  JOYCE  KILMER 

When  I  am  tired  of  earnest  men, 

Intense  and  keen  and  sharp  and  clever, 
Pursuing  fame  with  brush  or  pen, 

Or  counting  metal  disks  forever, 
Then  from  the  halls  of  Shadowland, 

Beyond  the  trackless  purple  sea, 
Old  Martin's  ghost  comes  back  to  stand 

Beside  my  desk  and  talk  to  me. 

Still  on  his  delicate  pale  face 

A  quizzical  thin  smile  is  showing, 
His  cheeks  are  wrinkled  like  fine  lace, 

His  kind  blue  eyes  are  gay  and  glowing. 
He  wears  a  brilliant-hued  cravat, 

A  suit  to  match  his  soft  grey  hair, 
A  rakish  stick,  a  knowing  hat, 

A  manner  blithe  and  debonair. 


Martin  115 

How  good  that  he  who  always  knew 

That  being  lovely  was  a  duty, 
Should  have  gold  halls  to  wander  through 

And  should  himself  inhabit  beauty. 
How  like  his  old  unselfish  way 

To  leave  those  halls  of  splendid  mirth 
And  comfort  those  condemned  to  stay 

Upon  the  dull  and  sombre  earth. 

Some  people  ask:  "  What  cruel  chance 

Made  Martin's  life  so  sad  a  story?" 
Martin?    Why,  he  exhaled  romance, 

And  wore  an  overcoat  of  glory. 
A  fleck  of  sunlight  in  the  street, 

A  horse,  a  book,  a  girl  who  smiled, 
Such  visions  made  each  moment  sweet 

For  this  receptive  ancient  child. 

Because  it  was  old  Martin's  lot 

To  be,  not  make,  a  decoration, 
Shall  we  then  scorn  him,  having  not 

His  genius  of  appreciation? 
Rich  joy  and  love  he  got  and  gave; 

His  heart  was  merry  as  his  dress; 
Pile  laurel  wreaths  upon  his  grave 

Who  did  not  gain,  but  was,  success! 


HAUNTED  PLACES 


THE  LISTENERS  :  WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

"Is  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  the  second  time ; 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  gray  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  the  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men : 
Stood  thronging  the  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call: 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky. 
For  he  suddenly  smote  upon  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head: — 
"  Tell  them  I  came  and  no  one  answered, 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
119 


I2O  The  Haunted  Hour 

Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still 
house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Aye,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward, 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 


HAUNTED  HOUSES  :  HENRY  w.  LONGFELLOW 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.    Through  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table  than  the  hosts 

Invited;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  or  hear  the  sounds  I  hear; 

He  but  perceives  what  is;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 


Haunted  Houses  121 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors  dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  attractions  and  desires: 
The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends, 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends, 
Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


122  The  Haunted  Hour 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY  :  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

LONGFELLOW 

I  have  read  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  band  was  seen, 

And  with  a  sorrowful  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 
No  drum  nor  sentry's  pace, 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

And  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled: 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 


The  Beleaguered  City  123 

I  have  read  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  then  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The   shadows   sweep   away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


124  The  Haunted  Hour 


A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE  :  BRET  HARTE 

They  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 
(I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me) ; 

But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 
Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French; 

It  was  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms, — poor 
wench ! — 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 

Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  gold-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened, — the  mischief  take  her! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave;  and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night  when  the  sea  fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
From  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  as  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 


A  Newport  Romance  125 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead-and-gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story;  yet 

Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way? 

I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night — 
Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea; 

And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 
In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  the  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 

From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall ;  small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  o'erwrought 

With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette! 

I  open  the  window  and  seem  almost — 

So  still  lies  the  ocean — to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  great  Gulf  Artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 


126  The  Haunted  Hour 

In  my  neighbor's  windows  the  gas  lights  flare 

As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  from  Strauss; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is, 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn; 

And  maybe  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  was  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle  sad  perfume, 

As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 

Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 
And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 
'  That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 

And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door ; 

For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 
She  is  viewless  forevermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 

I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 
She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night. 

A  LEGEND  :  MAY  KENDALL 

Ay,  an  old  story,  yet  it  might 

Have  truth  in  it — who  knows? 

Of  the  heroine's  breaking  down  one  night 
Just  ere  the  curtain  rose. 


A  Legend  127 

And  suddenly,  when  fear  and  doubt 

Had  shaken  every  heart, 
There  stepped  an  unknown  actress  out, 

To  take  the  heroine's  part. 

But  oh,  the  magic  of  her  face, 

And  oh  the  songs  she  sung, 
And  oh  the  rapture  of  the  place, 

And  oh  the  flowers  they  flung! 

But  she  never  stooped :  they  lay  all  night, 

As  when  she  turned  away, 
And  left  them — and  the  saddest  light 

Shone  in  her  eyes  of  grey. 

She  gave  a  smile  in  glancing  round, 
And  sighed,  one  fancied,  then — 

But  never  they  knew  where  she  was  bound, 
Or  saw  her  face  again, 

But  the  old  prompter,  grey  and  frail, 

They  heard  him  murmur  low, 
"  It  only  could  be  Meg  Coverdale, 

Died  thirty  years  ago, 

"  In  that  old  part,  who  took  the  town ; 

And  she  was  fair,  as  fair 
As  when  they  shut  the  coffin  down 

On  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair; 

"  And  it  wasn't  hard  to  understand 

How  a  lass  as  fair  as  she 
Could  never  rest  in  the  Promised  Land, 

Where  none  but  angels  be." 


128  The  Haunted  Hour 


A  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR  :  ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN 

After  all  the  house  is  dark, 
And  the  last  soft  step  is  still, 

And  the  elm-bough's  clear-cut  shadow 
Flickers  on  the  window  sill — 


When  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  watch-dogs  all  asleep, 

And  the  misty  silver  radiance 

Makes  the  shade  look  black  and  deep — 

When,  so  silent  is  the  night, 
Not  a  dead  leaf  dares  to  fall, 

And  I  only  hear  the  death-watch 
Ticking,  ticking  in  the  wall — 

When  no  hidden  mouse  dares  gnaw 
At  the  silence  dead  and  dumb, 

And  the  very  air  seems  waiting 

For  a  Something  that  should  come — 

Suddenly,  there  stands  my  guest, 
Whence  he  came  I  cannot  see; 

Not  a  door  has  swung  before  him, 
Not  a  hand  touched  latch  or  key, 

Not  a  rustle  stirred  the  air; 

Yet  he  stands  there,  brave  and  mute, 
In  his  eyes  a  look  of  greeting, 

In  his  hand  an  old-time  flute. 


A  Midnight  Visitor  129 

Then,  with  all  the  courtly  grace 

Of  the  old  Colonial  school, 
From  the  curtain-shadowed  corner 

Forth  he  draws  a  three-legged  stool — 

(Ah,  it  was  not  there  before! 

Search  as  closely  as  I  may, 
I  can  never,  never  find  it 

When  I  look  for  it  by  day!) 

Places  it  beside  my  bed, 

And  while  silently  I  gaze 
Spell-bound  by  his  mystic  presence, 

Seats  himself  thereon  and  plays. 

Gracious,  stately,  grave  and  tall, 
Always  dressed  from  crown  to  toe 

In  the  quaint  elaborate  fashion 
Of  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Doublet,  small-clothes,  silk-clocked  hose; 

Wears  my  midnight  melodist, 
Snowy  ruffles  in  his  bosom, 

Snowy  ruffles  at  his  wrist. 

Silver  buckle  at  his  knee, 

Silver  buckle  on  his  shoe; 
Powdered  hair  smoothed  back  and  plaited 

In  a  stiff  old-fashioned  queue. 

If  I  stir  he  vanishes; 

If  I  speak  he  flits  away; 
If  I  lie  in  utter  silence, 

He  will  sit  for  hours  and  play; 


I3O  The  Haunted  Hour 

Play  old  wailing  minor  airs, 
Melancholy,  wild  and  slow, 

Such,  mayhap,  as  pleased  the  maidens 
Of  a  hundred  years  ago. 

All  in  vain  I  wait  to  hear 
Ghostly  histories  of  wrong 

Unconfessed  and  unforgiven, 
Unavenged  and  suffered  long; 

Not  a  story  does  he  tell, 

Not  a  single  word  he  says — 

Only  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
Steadily,  and  plays  and  plays. 

Who  is  he,  my  midnight  guest? 

Wherefore  does  he  haunt  me  so; 
Coming  from  the  misty  shadows 

Of  a  hundred  years  ago? 


HAUNTED  :  AMY  LOWELL 

See!    He  trails  his  toes 

Through  the  long  streaks  of  moonlight, 

And  the  nails  of  his  ringers  glitter; 

They  claw  and  flash  among  the  tree-tops. 

His  lips  suck  at  my  open  window, 

And  his  breath  creeps  about  my  body 

And  lies  in  pools  under  my  knees. 

I  can  see  his  mouth  sway  and  wobble, 

Sticking  itself  against  the  window-jambs, 

But  the  moonlight  is  bright  on  the  floor, 

Without  a  shadow. 

Hark!  A  hare  is  strangling  in  the  forest, 

And  the  wind  tears  a  shutter  from  the  wall. 


The  Little  Green  Orchard  131 

THE   LITTLE  GREEN   ORCHARD  :  WALTER  DE 

LA   MARE 

Some  one  is  always  sitting  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard; 
Even  when  the  sun  is  high 
In  noon's  unclouded  sky, 
And  faintly  droning  goes 
The  bee  from  rose  to  rose, 
Some  one  in  shadow  is  sitting  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard. 

Yes,  and  when  twilight's  falling  softly 

On  the  little  green  orchard ; 
When  the  gray  dew  distils 
And  every  flower  cup  fills; 
When  the  last  blackbird  says, 
"  What — what !  "  and  goes  her  way — ssh ! 
I  have  heard  voices  calling  softly 

In  the  little  green  orchard. 

Not  that  I  am  afraid  of  being  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard; 
Why,  when  the  moon's  been  bright, 
Shedding  her  lonesome  light, 
And  moths  like  ghosties  come, 
And  the  horned  snail  leaves  home: 
I've  stayed  there,  whispering  and  listening  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard. 

Only  it's  strange  to  be  feeling  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard; 
Whether  you  paint  or  draw, 
Dig,  hammer,  chop  or  saw, 


132  The  Haunted  Hour 

When  you  are  most  alone, 
All  but  the  silence  gone  .    .    . 
Some  one  is  waiting  and  watching  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard. 


FIREFLIES  :  LOUISE  DRISCOLL 

What  are  you,  fireflies, 
That  come  as  daylight  dies? 
Are  you  the  old,  old  dead, 
Creeping  through  the  long  grass, 
To  see  the  green  leaves  move 
And  feel  the  light  wind  pass? 

The  larkspur  in  my  garden 
Is  a  sea  of  rose  and  blue, 

The  white  moth  is  a  ghost  ship 
Drifting  through. 

The  shadows  fall  like  lilacs 
Raining  from  a  garden  sky, 

Pollen   laden   bees  go  home, 
Bird  songs  die. 

The  honeysuckle  breaks  a  flask, 
And  a  breeze,  on  pleasure  bent, 

Catches  in  her  little  hands 
The  sharp  scent. 

In  the  darkness  and  the  dew 
Come  the  little,  flying  flames, 

Are  they  the  forgotten  dead, 
Without   names? 


The  Little  Ghost  1331 

Did  they  love  the  leaves  and  wind, 

Grass  and  gardens  long  ago 
With  a  love  that  draws  them  home 

Where  things  grow? 

For  an  hour  with  green  leaves, 
Love  immortal  leaped  to  flame, 

From  the  earth  into  the  night 
Old  hearts  came. 

What  are  you,  fireflies, 
That  come  as  daylight  dies? 


THE  LITTLE  GHOST  :  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 

I  knew  her  for  a  little  ghost 

That  in  my  garden  walked; 

The  wall  is  high — higher  than  most — 
And  the  green  gate  was  locked. 

And  yet  I  did  not  think  of  that 

Till  after  she  was  gone — 
I  knew  her  by  the  broad  white  hat, 

All  ruffled,  she  had  on. 

By  the  dear  ruffles  round  her  feet, 
By  her  small  hands  that  hung 

In  their  lace  mitts,  austere  and  sweet, 
Her  gown's  white  folds  among. 

I  watched  to  see  if  she  would  stay, 
What  she  would  do — and  oh! 

She  looked  as  if  she  liked  the  way 
I  let  my  garden  grow! 


134  The  Haunted  Hour 

She  bent  above  my  favorite  mint 
With  conscious  garden  grace, 

She  smiled  and  smiled — there  was  no  hint 
Of  sadness  in  her  face. 

She  held  her  gown  on  either  side 

To  let  her  slippers  show, 
And  up  the  walk  she  went  with  pride, 

The  way  great  ladies  go. 

And  where  the  wall  is  built  in  new 

And  is  of  ivy  bare 
She  paused — then  opened  and  passed  through 

A  gate  that  once  was  there. 


HAUNTED  :  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Between  the  moss  and  stone 

The  lonely  lilies  rise; 
Wasted   and   overgrown 

The   tangled   garden   lies. 
Weeds  climb  about  the  stoop 

And   clutch   the   crumbling  walls; 
The  drowsy  grasses  droop — 

The  night  wind  falls. 

The  place  is  like  a  wood; 

No  sign  is  there  to  tell 
Where   rose   and   iris  stood 

That  once  she  loved   so  well. 
Where  phlox  and  asters  grew, 

A  leafless  thornbush  stands, 
And  shrubs  that  never  knew 

Her  tender  hands. 


Ghosts  135 

Over  the  broken  fence 

The  moonbeams  trail  their  shrouds; 
Their    tattered    cerements 

Cling   to   the   gauzy   clouds, 
In   ribbons  frayed   and   thin — 

And  startled   by  the  light 
Silence   shrinks    deeper    in 

The   depths   of   night. 

Useless  lie  spades   and   rakes; 

Rust's  on   the   garden-tools. 
Yet,  where  the  moonlight  makes 

Nebulous  silver  pools 
A  ghostly  shape  is  cast — 

Something  unseen  has  stirred  .    .    . 
Was  it  a  breeze  that  passed? 

Was  it  a  bird? 

Dead   roses  lift  their  heads 

Out  of   a  grassy   tomb; 
From    ruined    pansy-beds 

A  thousand   pansies  bloom. 
The  gate  is  opened  wide — 

The  garden  that  has  been 
Now  blossoms  like  a  bride  .    .    . 

Who  entered  in? 


GHOSTS  :  MADISON  CAWEIN 

Low,  weed-climbed  cliffs,  o'er  which  at  noon 

The  sea-mists  swoon: 
Wind-twisted  pines,  through  which  the  crow 

Goes  winging  slow: 


136  The  Haunted  Hour 

Dim  fields  the  sower  never  sows, 

Or  reaps  or  mows: 
And  near  the  sea  a  ghostly  house  of  stone 

Where  all  is  old  and  lone. 

A  garden,  falling  in  decay, 

Where  statues  gray 
Peer,  broken,  out  of  tangled  weed 

And  thorny  seed; 
Satyr  and  Nymph,  that  once  made  love 

By  walk  and  grove: 
And,  near  a  fountain,  shattered,  green  with  mould, 

A  sundial,   lichen-old. 

Like  some  sad  life  bereft, 

To  musing  left, 
The  house  stands:  love  and  youth 

Both  gone,  in  sooth: 
But  still  it  sits  and  dreams: 

And  round  it  seems 
Some  memory  of  the  past,  still  young  and  fair, 

Haunting  each  crumbling  stair. 

And  suddenly  one  dimly  sees, 

Come  through  the  trees, 
A  woman,  like  a  wild  moss-rose : 

A  man,  who  goes 
Softly:  and  by  the  dial 

They   kiss   a  while: 
Then  drowsily  the  mists  blow  round  them,  wan, 

And  they  like  ghosts  are  gone. 


The  Three  Ghosts  137 


THE  THREE  GHOSTS  :    THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  lonely  road, 
Spake  each  to  one  another, 

"  Whence  came  that  stain  upon  your  mouth 
No   lifted   hand   can   cover?" 

"  From  eating  of  forbidden  fruit, 
Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  sunless  road, 
Spake  each  to  one  another, 

"  Whence  came  that  red  burn  on  your  foot 
No  dust  or  ash  may  cover  ?  " 

"  I  stamped  a  neighbor's  hearth-flame  out, 
Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  windless  road, 
Spake  each  to  one  another, 

"  Whence  came  that  blood  upon  thy  hand 
No  other  hand  may  cover?" 

"  From  breaking  of  a  woman's  heart, 
Brother,  my  brother." 

"  Yet  on  the  earth,  clean  men  we  walked, 
Glutton  and  thief  and  lover, 

White  flesh  and  fair,  it  hid  our  stains, 
That  no  man  might  discover," 

Naked  the  soul  goes  up  to  God, 
Brother,  my  brother." 


"YOU  KNOW  THE  OLD,  WHILE 
I  KNOW  THE  NEW  " 


AFTER  DEATH  :  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

The  curtains  were  half  drawn,  the  floor  was  swept 
And  strewn  with  rushes;  rosemary  and  may 
Lay  thick  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 

Where  through  the  lattice  ivy-shadows  crept. 

He  leaned  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept 

And  could  not  hear  him;  but  I  heard  him  say, 
"  Poor  child,  poor  child  ":  and  as  he  turned  away 

Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 

He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise  the  fold 
That  hid  my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in  his, 
Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  head: 
He  did  not  love  me  living;  but  once  dead 
He  pitied  me;  and  very  sweet  it  is 

To  know  he  still  is  warm  though  I  am  cold. 

THE  PASSER-BY  :  EDITH  M.  THOMAS 

Step  lightly  across  the  floor, 
And  somewhat  more  tender  be. 

There  were  many  that  passed  my  door, 

Many  that  sought  after  me. 

I  gave  them  the  passing  word — 

Ah,  why  did  I  give  thee  more? 

I  gave  thee  what  could  not  be  heard, 

What  had  not  been  given  before; 

The  beat  of  my  heart  I  gave.  .    .   . 

And  I  give  thee  this  flower  on  my  grave. 

My  face  in  the  flower  thou  mayst  see. 
Step  lightly  across  the  floor. 
141 


142  The  Haunted  Hour 


AT  HOME  :  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turned 

To  seek  the  much-frequented  house. 
I  passed  the  door,  and  saw  my  friends 

Feasting  beneath  green  orange-boughs; 
From  hand  to  hand  they  pushed  the  wine, 

They  sucked  the  pulp  of  plum  and  peach; 
They  sang,  they  jested,  and  they  laughed, 

For  each  was  loved  of  each. 

I  listened  to  their  honest  chat. 

Said  one,  "  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
Plod-plod  along  the  featureless  sands, 

And  coasting  miles  and  miles  of  sea." 
Said  one,  "  Before  the  turn  of  tide 

We  will  achieve  the  eyrie-seat." 
Said  one,  "  To-morrow  shall  be  like 

To-day,  but  much  more  sweet." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  they,  strong  with  hope, 

And  dwelt  upon  the  pleasant  way: 
"  To-morrow,"  cried  they  one  and  all, 

While  no  one  spoke  of  yesterday. 
Their  life  stood  full  at  blessed  noon; 

I,  only  I  had  passed  away: 
"To-morrow  and  to-day,"  they  cried; 

I  was  of  yesterday. 

I  shivered  comfortless,  but  cast 
No  chill  across  the  tablecloth; 

I,  all-forgotten,  shivered,  sad 

To  stay  and  yet  to  part  how  loth: 


The  Return  143 

I  passed  from  the  familiar  room, 
I  whom  from  love  had  passed  away, 

Like  the  remembrance  of  a  guest 
That  tarrieth  but  a  day. 


THE  RETURN  :  MINNA  IRVING 

I  pushed  the  tangled  grass  away 

And  lifted  up  the  stone, 
And  flitted  down  the  churchyard  path 

With  grasses  overgrown. 
I  halted  at  my  mother's  door 

And  shook  the  rusty  catch — 
"  The  wind  is  rising  fast,"  she  said, 

"  It  rattles  at  the  latch." 

I  crossed  the  street  and  paused  again 

Before  my  husband's  house, 
My  baby  sat  upon  his  knee 

As  quiet  as  a  mouse. 
I  pulled  the  muslin  curtain  by, 

He  rose  the  blinds  to  draw — 
"  I  feel  a  draught  upon  my  back, 

The  night  is  cold  and  raw." 

I  met  a  man  who  loved  me  well 

In  days  ere  I  was  wed, 
He  did  not  hear,  he  did  not  see, 

So  silently  I  fled. 
But  when  I  found  my  poor  old  dog, 

Though  blind  and  deaf  was  he, 
And  feeble  with  his  many  years, 

He  turned  and  followed  me. 


144  The  Haunted  Hour 

THE  ROOM'S  WIDTH  :  ELIZABETH  STUART 

PHELPS   WARD 

I  think  if  I  should  cross  the  room, 

Far  as  fear, 
Should  stand  beside  you  like  a  thought — 

Touch  you,  dear, 

Like  a  fancy — to  your  sad  heart 

It  would  seem 
That  my  vision  passed  and  prayed  you, 

Or  my  dream. 

Then  you  would  look  with  lonely  eyes — 
Lift  your  head — 

And  you  would  stir  and  sigh,  and  say, 
"  She  is  dead." 

Baffled  by  death  and  love,  I  lean 
Through  the  gloom. 

O  Lord  of  life!    Am  I  forbid 
To  cross  the  room? 


HAUNTED  :  DON  MARQUIS 

A  ghost  is  a  freak  of  a  sick  man's  brain? 

Then  why  do  you  start  and  shiver  so? 
That's  the  sob  and  drip  of  a  leaky  drain? 

But  it  sounds  like  another  noise  we  know! 

The  heavy  drops  drummed  red  and  slow, 
The  drops  ran  down  as  slow  as  fate — 

Do  ye  hear  them  still? — it  was  long  ago! — 
But  here  in  the  shadows  I  wait,  and  wait ! 


Haunted  145 

Spirits  there  be  that  pass  in  peace; 

Mine  passed  in  a  whirl  of  wrath  and  dole; 
And  the  hour  that  your  choking  breath  shall  cease 

I  will  get  my  grip  on  your  naked  soul — 

Nor  pity  may  stay  nor  prayer  cajole — 
I  would  drag  ye  whining  from  Hell's  own  gate: 

To  me,  to  me,  ye  must  pay  the  toll! 
And  here  in  the  shadows  I  wait,  I  wait! 

The  dead  they  are  dead,  they  are  out  of  the  way? 

And  the  ghost  is  a  whim  of  an  ailing  mind  ? 
Then  why  did  ye  whiten  with  fear  to-day 

When  ye  heard  a  voice  in  the  calling  wind? 

Why  did  ye  falter  and  look  behind  ? 
At  the  creeping  mists  when  the  hour  grew  late? 

Ye  would  see  my  face  were  ye  stricken  blind! 
And  here  in  the  shadows  I  wait,  I  wait! 

Drink  and  forget,  make  merry  and  boast, 

But  the  boast  rings  false  and  the  jest  is  thin — 

In  the  hour  that  I  meet  you  ghost  to  ghost, 
Stripped  of  the  flesh  that  you  skulk  within, 
Stripped  to  the  coward  soul  'ware  of  its  sin, 

Ye  shall  learn,  ye  shall  learn,  whether  dead  men 

hate! 
Ah,  a  weary  time  has  the  waiting  been, 

But  here  in  the  shadows  I  wait,  I  wait! 


"  MY  LOVE  THAT  WAS  SO  TRUE  " 


ONE  OUT-OF-DOORS  :  SARAH  PIATT 

A  ghost — is  he  afraid  to  be  a  ghost? 

A  ghost?     It  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  it. 
Something  that  wavers  in  the  moon,  at  most; 

Something  that  wanders:  something  that  must  flit 
From  morning,  from  the  bird's  breath  and  the  dew. 
Ah,  if  I  knew, — ah,  if  I  only  knew! 

Something  so  weirdly  wan,  so  weirdly  still! 

O  yearning  lips  that  our  warm  blood  can  flush, 
Follow  it  with  your  kisses,  if  you  will; 

O  beating  heart,  think  of  its  helpless  hush. 
Oh,  bitterest  of  all,  to  feel  we  fear 
Something  that  was  so  near,  that  was  so  dear! 

No — no,  he  is  no  ghost;  he  could  not  be; 

Something  that  hides,  forlorn,  in  frost  and  brier; 
Something  shut  outside  in  the  dark,  while  we 

Laugh  and  forget  by  the  familiar  fire; 
Something  whose  moan  we  call  the  wind,  whose  tears 
Sound  but  as  rain-drops  in  our  human  ears. 


SAILING  BEYOND  SEAS  :  JEAN  INGELOW 

Methought  the  stars  were  blinking  bright, 
And  the  old  brig's  sail  unfurl'd; 

I  said,  "  I  will  sail  to  my  love  this  night 
At  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
149 


150  The  Haunted  Hour 

I  stepp'd  abroad, — we  sail'd  so  fast, — 

The  sun  shot  up  from  the  bourn; 
But  a  dove  that  perch'd  upon  the  mast 
Did  mourn  and  mourn  and  mourn. 
O  fair  dove!     O  fond  dove! 

And  dove  with  the  white,  white  breast, 
Let  me  alone,  the  dream  is  my  own, 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  rest. 

My  true  love  fares  on  this  great  hill, 

Feeding  his  sheep  for  aye; 
I  look'd  in  his  hut,  but  all  was  still, 

My  love  was  gone  away. 
I  went  to  gaze  in  the  forest  creek, 
And  the  dove  mourn'd  on  apace; 
No  flame  did  flash,  nor  fair  blue  reek 
Rose  up  to  show  me  his  place. 
O  last  love!     O  first  love! 

My  love  with  the  true,  true  heart, 
To  think  I  have  come  to  this  your  home, 
And  yet — we  are  apart! 

My  love!     He  stood  at  my  right  hand, 

His  eyes  were  grave  and  sweet. 
Methought  he  said,  "  In  this  far  land, 

O,  is  it  thus  we  meet? 
Ah,  maid  most  dear,  I  am  not  here; 

I  have  no  place, — no  part, — 
No  dwelling  more  by  sea  or  shore, 
But  only  in  thy  heart." 
O  fair  dove!     O  fond  dove! 

Till  night  rose  over  the  bourn, 
The  dove  on  the  mast,  as  we  sail'd  fast, 
Did  mourn  and  mourn  and  mourn. 


Betrayal  151 


BETRAYAL  :  ALINE  KILMER 

Four  hundred  times  the  glass  had  run 
And  seven  times  the  moon  had  died 

Since  my  lover  rode  in  his  silver  mail 
Away  from  his  new-made  bride. 

A  ghost-light  gleamed  in  the  field  beyond 
And  a  wet,  wet  wind  blew  in  from  the  sea 

When  out  of  the  mist  my  own  true  love 
Came  up  and  stood  by  me. 

My  heart  leapt  up  that  had  been  still, 
My  voice  rang  out  that  had  been  sad, 

Till  my  sister  left  her  busy  wheel 
To  see  what  made  me  glad. 

She  saw  my  arms  about  his  neck, 
She  saw  my  head  upon  his  breast. 

Oh,  why  did  my  sister  hate  me  so 
That  she  would  not  let  me  rest? 

Loud  then  laughed  my  cruel  sister, 
False  and  fair  of  face  was  she, 

"  O  that  is  never  your  own  true  love, 
For  he  lies  dead  in  a  far  countrie !  " 

I  loosed  the  clasp  of  my  clinging  arms 
And  his  shining  face  grew  still  and  white; 

My  tears  ran  down  like  bitter  rain 
As  I  watched  him  fade  from  sight. 


152  The  Haunted  Hour 

May  the  salt  sea  bury  me  in  its  waves, 

May  the  mountains  fall  and  cover  my  head, 

Since  I  had  not  faith  in  my  only  love 
When  he  came  back  from  the  dead. 


THE  TRUE  LOVER  :  A.  E.  HOUSMAN 

The  lad  came  to  the  door  at  night, 
When  lovers  crown  their  vows, 

And  whistled  soft  and  out  of  sight 
In  shadow  of  the  boughs. 

"  I  shall  not  vex  you  with  my  face 
Henceforth,  my  love,  for  aye; 

So  take  me  in  your  arms  a  space 
Before  the  east  is  gray. 

"  When  I  from  hence  away  am  past 
I  shall  not  find   a  bride, 

And  you  shall  be  the  first  and  last 
I  ever  lay  beside." 

She  heard  and  went  and  knew  not  why; 

Her  heart  to  his  she  laid; 
Light  was  the  air  beneath  the  sky 

But  dark  under  the  shade. 

"  Oh,  do  you  breathe,  lad,  that  your  breast 
Seems  not  to  rise  and  fall, 

And  here  upon  my  bosom  prest 
There  beats  no  heart  at  all  ?  " 


Haunted  153 

"  Oh,  loud,  my  girl,  it  once  would  knock, 
You  should  have  felt  it  then; 

But  since  for  you  I  stopped  the  clock 
It  never  goes  again." 

"  Oh,  lad,  what  is  it,  lad,  that  drops 
Wet  from  your  neck  on  mine? 

What  is  it  falling  on  my  lips, 

My  lad,  that  tastes  like  brine?" 

"  Oh  like  enough  'tis  blood,  my  dear, 

For  when  the  knife  has  slit 
The  throat  across  from  ear  to  ear 

'Twill  bleed  because  of  it." 

Under  the  stars  the  air  was  light 

But  dark  below  the  boughs, 
The  still  air  of  the  speechless  night, 

When  lovers  crown  their  vows. 


HAUNTED  :  G.  B.  STUART 

When  candle-flames  burn  blue, 
Between  the  night  and  morning, 
I  know  that  it  is  you, 
My  love,  that  was  so  true, 
And  that  I  killed  with  scorning. 

The  watch-dogs  howl  and  bay; 
I  pale,  and  leave  off  smiling. 
Only  the  other  day 
I  held  your  heart  in  play 
Intent  upon  beguiling. 


154  The  Haunted  Hour 

A  little  while  ago 

I  wrung  your  soul  with  sighing, 

Or  brought  a  sudden  glow 

Into  your  cheek  by  low 

Soft  answers,  in  replying. 

My  life  was  all  disguise, 

A  mask  of  feints  and  fancies; 

I  used  to  lift  my  eyes, 

And  take  you  by  surprise 

With  smiles  and  upward  glances. 

And  now,  where'er  I  go, 
Your  sad  ghost  follows  after; 
And  blue  the  flame  burns  low, 
And  doors  creak  to  and  fro, 
And  silent  grows  the  laughter. 


THE  WHITE  MOTH  :  SIR  ARTHUR  QUILLER-COUCH 

If  a  leaf  rustled  she  would  start: 

And  yet  she  died,  a  year  ago. 
How  had  so  frail  a  thing  the  heart 

To  journey  where  she  trembled  so? 
And  do  they  turn  and  turn  in  fright, 

Those  little  feet,  in  so  much  night? 

The  light  above  the  poet's  head 

Streamed  on  the  page  and  on  the  cloth, 

And  twice  and  thrice  there  buffeted 
On  the  black  pane  a  white-winged  moth : 

'Twas  Annie's  soul  that  beat  outside, 
And,  "  Open,  open,  open !  "  cried. 


The  Ghost  155 

"  I  could  not  find  the  way  to  God ; 

There  were  too  many  flaming  suns 
For  signposts,  and  the  fearful  road 

Led  over  wastes  where  millions 
Of  flaming  comets  hissed  and  burned — 

I  was  bewildered  and  I  turned. 

"  O,  it  was  easy  then !     I  knew 
Your  window,  and  no  star  beside. 
Look  up  and  take  me  back  to  you !  " 

He  rose  and  thrust  the  window  wide. 
'Twas  but  because  his  brain  was  hot 

With  rhyming ;  for  he  saw  her  not 

But  poets  polishing  a  phrase 
Show  anger  over  trivial  things: 
And  as  she  blundered  in  the  blaze 

Towards  him,  on  ecstatic  wings, 
He  raised  a  hand  and  smote  her  dead; 

Then  wrote,  "  That  I  had  died  instead! " 


THE  GHOST  :  WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

"Who  knocks?"     "  I,  who  was  beautiful, 
Beyond  all  dreams  to  restore, 
I,  from  the  roots  of  the  dark  thorn  am  hither, 
And  knock  on  the  door." 

"  Who  speaks?  "    "  I, — once  was  my  speech 
Sweet  as  the  bird's  on  the  air. 
When  echo  lurks  by  the  waters  to  heed; 
'Tis  I  speak  thee  fair." 


156  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Dark  is  the  hour!  "     "Aye,  and  cold." 
"  Lone  is  my  house."    "Ah,  but  mine?  " 
"  Sight,  touch,  lips,  eyes  yearn  in  vain." 
"Long  dead  these  to  thine.  ..." 

Silence.     Still  faint  on  the  porch 
Brake  the  flames  of  the  stars. 
In  gloom  groped  a  hope- wearied  hand 
Over  keys,   bolts  and  bars. 

A  face  peered.     All  the  grey  night 
In  chaos  of  vacancy  shone; 
Nought  but  vast  Sorrow  was  there — 
The  sweet  cheat  gone. 


LUKE  HAVERGAL  :  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal, — 
There  where  the  vines  cling  crimson  on  the  wall,- 
And  in  the  twilight  wait  for  what  will  come. 
The  wind  will  moan,  the  leaves  will  whisper  some,- 
Whisper  of  her,  and  strike  you  as  they  fall; 
But  go,  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call. 
Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal — 
Luke  Havergal. 

No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies 
To  rift  the  fiery  night  that's  in  your  eyes; 
But  there  where  western  glooms  are  gathering, 
The   dark   will   end    the   dark,    if   anything: 
God  slays  Himself  with  every  leaf  that  flies, 
And  hell  is  more  than  half  of  paradise. 
No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies — 
In  eastern  skies. 


The  Highwayman  157 

Out  of  the  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this, — 
Out  of  the  grave  I  come  to  quench  the  kiss 
That  flames  upon  your  forehead  with  a  glow 
That  blinds  you  to  the  way  that  you  must  go. 
Yes,  there  is  yet  one  way  to  where  she  is, — 
Bitter,  but  one  that  faith  can  never  miss. 
Out  of  the  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this, 
To  tell  you  this. 

There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal, 
There  are  the  crimson  leaves  upon  the  wall. 
Go, — for  the  winds  are  tearing  them  away, — 
Nor  think  to  riddle  the  dead  words  that  they  say, 
Nor  any  more  to  feel  them  as  they  fall ; 
But  go!  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call. 
There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal — 
Luke  Havergal. 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  :  ALFRED  NOYES 

i 
The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty 

trees, 

The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
AiA  the  highwayman  came  riding — 

Riding — riding — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

2 

He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a  bunch  of  lace 
at  his  chin, 

A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of  brown  doe- 
skin; 


158  The  Haunted  Hour 

They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle:  his  boots  were  up  to 

the  thigh! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jewelled  twinkle, 

His  pistol  butts  a- twinkle, 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jewelled  sky. 


3 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the  dark  inn- 
yard, 

And  he  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  was 
locked  and  barred; 

He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be 
waiting  there 

But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 

Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 

4 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable-wicket  creaked 
Where  Tim,  the  ostler,  listened;  his  face  was  white  and 

peaked  ; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like  mouldy 

hay, 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter; 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter, 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the  robber  say — 

5 

"  One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a  prize  to- 
night, 

But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before  the 
morning  light; 


The  Highwayman  159 

Yet  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me  through  the  day, 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight, 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 

I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar 
the  way." 

6 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups;  he  scarce  could  reach  her 
hand, 

But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement!     His  face 
burnt  like  a  brand 

As  the  black  cascade  of  perfume  came  tumbling  over  his 
breast ; 

And  he  kissed  its  waves  in  the  moonlight, 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moonlight,) 

Then  he  tugged  at  his  reins  in  the  moonlight,  and  gal- 
loped away  to  the  West. 

PART  TWO 
I 

He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning;  he  did  not  come  at 
noon  ; 

And  out  of  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o'  the  moon, 

When  the  road  was  a  gypsy's  ribbon,  looping  the  purple 
moor, 

A  red-coat  troop  came  marching — 
Marching — marching — 

King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old  inn- 
door. 

2 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank  his  ale 
instead, 

But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to  the  foot 
of  her  narrow  bed; 


160  The  Haunted  Hour 

Two  of  them  knelt  at  her  casement,  with  muskets  at  thei: 

side! 
There  was  death  at  every  window; 

And  Hell  at  one  dark  window; 
For  Bess  could  see,  through  her  casement,  the  road  tha 

he  would  ride. 

3 
They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a  snigger 

ing  jest; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the  barre 

beneath  her  breast! 
"  Now  keep  good  watch ! "  and  they  kissed  her. 

She  heard  the  dead  man  say — 
Look  for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 

I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bat 
the  way! 

4 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her;  but  all  the  knots  helc 

good! 
She  writhed  her  hands  till  her  ringers  were  wet  witJ 

sweat  or  blood! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  the  darkness,   and   th< 

hours  crawled  by  like  years, 
Till,  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 

Cold,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it!    The  trigger  at  leasi 

was  hers! 

5 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;  she  strove  no  more  foi 

the  rest! 
Up,  she  stood  to  attention,  with  the  barrel  beneath  hei 

breast, 


The  Highwayman  161 

She  would  not  risk  their  hearing:  she  would  not  strive 

again  ; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight; 

Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight; 
And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight  throbbed  to 

her  love's  refrain. 

6 

Tlot-tlot;  tlot-tlot!     Had  they  heard  it?     The  horse- 
hoofs  ringing  clear — 

Tlot-tlot,  tlot-tlot  in  the  distance?    Were  they  deaf  that 
they  did  not  hear? 

Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

The  highwayman  came  riding, 
Riding,  riding! 

The  red-coats  looked  to  their  priming!     She  stood  up 
straight  and  still! 

7 
Tlot-tlot,  in  the  frosty  silence!     Tlot-tlot  in  the  echoing 

night ! 

Nearer  he  came  and  nearer!    Her  face  was  like  a  light! 
Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment;  she  drew  one  last 

deep  breath, 
Then  her  ringer  moved  in  the  moonlight, 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight, 
Shattered  her  breast  in  the  moonlight  and  warned  him — 

with  her  death. 

8 
He  turned ;  he  spurred  him  Westward ;  he  did  not  know 

who  stood 
Bowed  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched  with  her 

own  red  blood! 


1 62  The  Haunted  Hour 

Not  till  the  dawn  he  heard  it,  and  slowly  blanched  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and  died  in 
the  darkness  there. 

9 
Back,  he  spurred  like  a  madman,  shrieking  a  curse  to  the 

sky, 
With  the  white  road  smoking  behind  him,  and  his  rapier 

brandished  high! 
Blood-red  were  his  spurs  i'  the  golden  moon;  wine-red 

was  his  velvet  coat; 
When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 

Down  like  a  dog  on  the  highway, 
And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with  the  bunch 

of  lace  at  his  throat. 

And  still  of  a  winter's  night,  they  say,  when  the  wind  is 

in  the  trees, 
When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy 

seas, 
When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple 

moor, 

A  highwayman  comes  riding — 
R  iding — riding — 
A  highwayman  comes  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

10 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark  inn- 
yard; 

And  he  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is 
locked  and  barred; 


Tne  Blue  Closet  163 

He  whistles  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be 

waiting   there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 

Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 


THE  BLUE  CLOSET  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS 

THE    DAMOZELS 

Lady  Alice,  Lady  Louise, 
Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  you  please; 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys; 
Sing  " Laudate  pueri" 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Boom'd  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
Though  no  one  toll'd  it,  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

LADY    LOUISE 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud ;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 

And  ever  the  chevron   overhead 
Flapp'd  on  the  banner  of  the  dead; 
(Was  he  asleep,  or  was  he  dead?) 

LADY   ALICE 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 
Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 


164  The  Haunted  Hour 

Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 

From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year; 

And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go; 

To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below, 

Or  shovel  away  the  heap'd-up  snow; 

And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 

That  we  are  dead ;  but  they  give  us  leave, 

Once  every  year  on  Christmas-eve, 

To  sing  in  the  Closet  Blue  one  song: 

And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long, 

If  we  dared,  in  singing;  for,  dream  on  dream, 

They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream; 

They  float  from  the  gold  strings,  float,  from  the 

keys, 

Float  from  the  open'd  lips  of  Louise: 
But,  alas!  the  sea-salt  oozes  through 
The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet  Blue; 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
The  wind  plays  on  it  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

(THEY  SING  ALL  TOGETHER) 
How  long  ago  was  it,  how  long  ago, 
He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of  snow? 
"  Kneel  down,  O  love  Louise,  kneel  down,"  he 

said, 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my  head. 

He  watch'd  the  snow  melting,  it  ran  through  my 

hair, 
Ran  over  my  shoulders,  white  shoulders  and  bare. 

"  I  cannot  weep  for  thee,  poor  love  Louise, 
For  my  tears  are  all  hidden  deep  under  the  seas ; 


The  Blue  Closet  165 

"  In  a  gold  and  blue  casket  she  keeps  all  my  tears, 
But  my  eyes  are  no  longer  blue,  as  in  old  years; 

"  Yea,  they  grow  gray  with  time,  grow  small  and 

dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

And  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 
Left  off  pealing  for  the  dead, 
Perchance  because  the  wind  was — dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again  or  is  he  dead? 
Or  is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his  head? 

Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there, 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to  wear? 

Only  I  pray  thee,  Lord,  let  him  come  here; 
Both  his  soul  and  his  body  to  me  are  most  dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  receive 
Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas-eve. 

Through  the  floor  shot  up  a  lily  red, 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the  dead, 

For  he  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale, 

His  kind  kiss'd  lips  all  gray? 
"O  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long?" 

"  O  my  Lord  Arthur,  yea." 

What  if  his  hair  that  brush'd  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again. 

As  in  the  happy  time. 


1 66  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 

Of  the  happy  golden  land! 
O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me, 

My  eyes  are  full  of  sand, 
What  matter  that  I  cannot  see, 

If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand  ?  " 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead, 

And  the  tumbling  sea  mourned  for  the  dead, 

For  their  song  ceased,  and  they  were  dead. 


THE  GHOST'S  PETITION  :  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA 

ROSSETTI 

"  There's  a  footstep  coming;  look  out  and  see." — 

"The  leaves  are  falling,  the  wind  is  calling; 
No  one  cometh  across  the  lea." — 

"There's  a  footstep  coming;  O  sister,  look." — 
"The  ripple  flashes,  the  white  foam  dashes; 
No  one  cometh  across  the  brook." — 

"  But  he  promised  that  he  would  come : 

To-night,  to-morrow,  in  joy  or  sorrow, 
He  must  keep  his  word,  and  must  come  home. 

"  For  he  promised  that  he  would  come ; 

His  word  was  given;  from  earth  to  heaven, 
He  must  keep  his  word,  and  must  come  home. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  my  sweet  sister  Jane ; 

You  can  slumber,  who  need  not  number 
Hour  after  hour,  in  doubt  and  pain. 


The  Ghost's  Petition  167 

"  I  shall  sit  here  awhile  and  watch ; 

Listening,  hoping  for  one  hand  groping, 
In  deep  shadow,  to  find  the  latch." 

After  the  dark  and  before  the  light, 

One  lay  sleeping,  and  one  sat  weeping, 
Who  had  watched  and  wept  the  weary  night. 

After  the  night  and  before  the  day, 

One  lay  sleeping;  and  one  sat  weeping — 
Watching,  weeping  for  one  away. 

There  came  a  footstep  climbing  the  stair, 
Some  one  standing  out  on  the  landing 
Shook  the  door  like  a  puff  of  air. — 

Shook  the  door  and  in  he  passed. 

Did  he  enter?     In  the  room  center 
Stood  her  husband;  the  door  shut  fast. 

"  O  Robin,  but  you  are  cold — 

Chilled  with  the  night-dew ;  so  lily  white  you 
Look  like  a  stray  lamb  from  our  fold. 

"O  Robin,  but  you  are  late: 

Come  and  sit  near  me — sit  here  and  cheer  me." — 
(Blue  the  flame  burnt  in  the  grate.) 

"  Lay  not  down  your  head  on  my  breast: 

I  cannot  hold  you,  kind  wife,  nor  fold  you 
In  the  shelter  that  you  love  best. 

"  Feel   not  after  my   clasping  hand : 

I  am  but  a  shadow,  come  from  the  meadow, 
Where  many  lie,  but  no  tree  can  stand. 


168  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  We  are  trees  that  have  shed  their  leaves: 

Our  heads  lie  low  there,  but  no  tears  flow  there; 
Only  I  grieve  for  my  wife  who  grieves. 

"  I  could  rest  if  you  would  not  moan 
Hour  after  hour;  I  have  no  power 
To  shut  my  ears  as  I  lie  alone. 

"  I  could  rest  if  you  would  not  cry, 

But  there's  no  sleeping  while  you  sit  weeping — 
Watching,  weeping  so  bitterly." — 

"  Woe's  me !    Woe's  me !    For  this  I  have  heard. 

Oh  night  of  sorrow — oh,  black  to-morrow! 
Is  it  thus  that  you  keep  your  word? 

"  Oh,  you  who  used  so  to  shelter  me, 

Warm  from  the  least  wind — why,  now  the  east 

wind 
Is  warmer  than  you,  whom  I  quake  to  see. 

"Oh,  my  husband  of  flesh  and  blood, 

For  whom  my  mother  I  left,  and  brother, 
And  all  I  had,  accounting  it  good, 

"  What  do  you  do  there,  under  the  ground, 
In  the  dark  hollow?    I'm  fain  to  follow. 
What  do  you  do  there  ?    What  have  you  found  ?  " — 

"  What  I  do  there  I  must  not  tell, 

But  I  have  plenty — kind  wife,  content  ye: 
It  is  well  with  us:  it  is  well. 

"  Tender  hand  hath  made  our  nest ; 

Our  fear  is  ended;  our  hope  is  blended 
With  present  pleasure,  and  we  have  rest." 


He  and  She  169 

"  Oh,  but  Robin,  I'm  fain  to  come, 

If  your  present  days  are  so  pleasant, 
For  my  days  are  so  wearisome. 

"Yet  I'll  dry  my  tears  for  your  sake: 

Why  should  I  tease  you,  who  cannot  please  you 
Any  more  with  the  pains  I  take  ?  " 


HE  AND  SHE  :  SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD 

"  She  is  dead !  "  they  said  to  him ;  "  come  away; 
Kiss  her  and  leave  her, — thy  love  is  clay !  " 

They  smoothed  her  tresses  of  dark  brown  hair,* 
On  her  forehead  of  stone  they  laid  it  fair. 

Over  her  eyes  that  gazed  too  much 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  up  well 
The  sweet  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to  tell; 

Above  her  brows  and  beautiful  face 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage  lace, 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  her  white-silk  shoes 
Which  were  the  whitest  no  eye  could  choose, — 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her  hands. 
"  Come  away,"  they  said,  "  God  understands." 

And  there  was  silence,  and  nothing  there 
But  silence  and  scents  of  eglantere, 


170  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  jasmine,  and  roses  and  rosemary, 

And  they  said:  "As  a  lady  should  lie,  lies  she." 

And  they  held  their  breath  till  they  left  the  room, 
With  a  shudder,  a  glance  at  its  stillness  and  gloom. 

But  he  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful  dead, 

He  lit  his  lamp,  and  he  took  the  key 
And  turned  it — alone  again,  he  and  she. 

He  and  she;  but  she  would  not  speak, 

Though  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the  quiet  cheek. 

He  and  she;  yet  she  would  not  smile, 

Though  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved  erewhile. 

He  and  she;  still  she  did  not  move 
To  any  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said,  "  Cold  lips  and  breast  without  breath, 
Is  there  no  voice  or  language  of  death, 

"  Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the  sense, 
But  to  heart  and  soul  distinct,  intense? 

"See  now;  I  will  listen  with  soul,  not  ear: 
What  is  the  secret  of  dying,  dear? 

"  Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall? 

"  Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal? 


He  and  She  171 

"  Was  the  miracle  greater  to  find  how  deep 
Beyond  all  dreams  sank  downward  that  sleep? 

"  Did  life  roll  back  its  record,  dear, 

And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things  clear? 

"  And  was  it  the  innermost  heart  of  the  bliss 
To  find  out  so,  what  a  wisdom  love  is? 

"O  perfect  dead!     O  dead  most  dear! 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear. 

"  I  listen  as  deep  as  to  terrible  hell, 

As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell. 

;<  There  must  be  pleasure  in  dying,  sweet, 
To  make  you  so  placid,  from  head  to  feet! 

"  I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead, 
And  'twere  your  hot  tears  upon  my  brow  shed, — 

"  I  would  say,  though  the  Angel  of  Death  had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid, — 

"  You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  streaming  eyes, 
Which  of  all  deaths  was  the  chiefest  surprise, 

"  The  very  strangest  and  suddenest  thing 
Of  all  the  surprises  that  dying  must  bring." 

Ah,  foolish  world!     O  most  kind  dead! 
Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it  was  said? 

Who  will  believe  that  he  heard  her  say, 
With  the  old  sweet  voice,  in  the  dear  old  way, 


172  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  The  utmost  wonder  is  this — I  hear 

And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you,  dear; 

"  And  am  your  angel,  who  was  your  bride. 
And  know,  that  though  dead,  I  have  never  died." 


SHAPES  OF  DOOM 


THE  DEAD  COACH  :  KATHERINE  TYNAN 

At  night  when  sick  folk  wakeful  lie, 
I  heard  the  dead  coach  passing  by, 
Heard  it  passing  wild  and  fleet, 
And  knew  my  time  had  come  not  yet. 

Click-clack,  click-clack,  the  hoofs  went  past, 
Who  takes  the  dead  coach  travels  fast, 
On  and  away  through  the  wild  night, 
The  dead  must  rest  ere  morning  light. 

If  one  might  follow  on   its  track, 
The  coach  and  horses  midnight  black, 
Within  should  sit  a  shape  of  doom 
That  beckons  one  and  all  to  come. 

God  pity  them  to-night  who  wait 
To  hear  the  dead  coach  at  their  gate, 
And  him  who  hears,  though  sense  be  dim, 
The  mournful  dead  coach  stop  for  him. 

He  shall  go  down  with  a  still  face, 
And  mount  the  steps  and  take  his  place, 
The  door  be  shut,  the  order  said, 
How  fast  the  pace  is  with  the  dead! 

Click-clack,  click-clack,  the  hour  is  chill, 
The  dead  coach  climbs  the  distant  hill. 
Now,   God,   the   Father  of   us  all, 
Wipe  Thou  the  widow's  tears  that  fall! 


176  The  Haunted  Hour 

DEID  FOLK'S  FERRY:  ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT 

WATSON 

'Tis  They,  of  a  veritie — 

They  are  calling  thin  an'  shrill; 
We  maun  rise  an'  put  to  sea, 

We  maun  gi'e  the  deid  their  will, 
We  maun  ferry  them  owre  the  faem, 

For  they  draw  us  as  they  list; 
We  maun  bear  the  deid  folk  hame 

Through  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

"  But  how  can  I  gang  the  nicht, 

When  I'm  new  come  hame  frae  sea? 
When  my  heart  is  sair  for  the  sicht 

O'  my  lass  that  langs  for  me?  " 
"  O  your  lassie  lies  asleep, 

An'  sae  do  your  bairnes  twa; 
The  cliff-path's  stey  and  steep, 

An'  the  deid  folk  cry  an'  ca'." 

O  sae  hooly  steppit  we, 

For  the  nicht  was  mirk  an'  lown, 
WF  never  a  sign  to  see, 

But  the  voices  all  aroun*. 
We  laid  to  the  saut  sea-shore, 

An'  the  boat  dipped  low  i'  th'  tide, 
As  she  micht  hae  dipped  wi'  a  score, 

An'  our  ain  three  sel's  beside. 

O  the  boat  she  settled  low, 

Till  her  gunwale  kissed  the  faem, 

An'  she  didna  loup  nor  row 
As  she  bare  the  deid  folk  hame; 


Deid  Folk's  Ferry  177 

But  she  aye  gaed  swift  an'  licht, 

An'  we  naething  saw  nor  wist, 
Wha  sailed  i'  th'  boat  that  nicht 

Through  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

There  was  never  a  sign  to  see, 

But  a  misty  shore  an'  low; 
Never  a  word   spak'  we, 

But  the  boat  she  lichtened  slow, 
An'  a  cauld  sigh  stirred  my  hair, 

An'  a  cauld  hand  touched  my  wrist, 
An'  my  heart  sank  cauld  and  sair 

I'  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

Then  the  wind  raise  up  wi'  a  maen, 

('Twas  a  waefu'  wind,  an'  weet). 
Like  a  deid  saul  wud  wi'  pain, 

Like  a  bairnie  wild  wi'  freit; 
But  the  boat  rade  swift  an'  licht, 

Sae  we  wan  the  land  fu'  sune, 
An'  the  shore  showed  wan  an'  white 

By  a  glint  o'   the  waning  mune. 

We  steppit  oot  owre  the  sand 

Where  an  unco'  tide  had  been, 
An'   Black   Donald   caught   my  hand 

An'  coverit  up  his  een: 
For  there,  in  the  wind  an'  weet, 

Or  ever  I  saw  nor  wist, 
My  Jean  an'  her  weans  lay  cauld  at  my  feet, 

In  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

An'    it's   O    for   my   bonny   Jean! 

An'  it's  O  for  my  bairnies  twa, 
It's  O  an'  O  for  the  watchet  een 

An'  the  steps  that  are  gane  awa' — 


178  The  Haunted  Hour 

Awa'   to  the  Silent  Place, 

Or  ever  I  saw  nor  wist, 
Though  I  wot  we  twa  went  face  to  face 

Through  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 


KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON  :    SYDNEY  DOBELL 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 

"  Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line !  " 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 

The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 
The  song  that  sang  she! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 
She  sat  beneath  the  thorn 

When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 
Rode  through  the  Monday  morn; 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 
His   belted    jewels    shine! 

Oh,   Keith  of   Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 


The  Fetch  179 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and   fair, 

She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine; 
Oh,   Keith  of   Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

I  lay  my  hands  upon  the  stile, 

The  stile  is  lone  and  cold. 
The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 

Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger!  here  from  year  to  year, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

Step  out  three  steps  where  Andrew  stood, — 
Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear? 

The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 
'Tis  not  the  burn  I  hear! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine, 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 


THE  FETCH  :  DORA  SIGERSON  SHORTER 

"  What  makes  you  so  late  at  the  tryst, 
What  caused  you  so  long  to  be? 

I  have  waited  a  weary  time 

For  the  hour  you  promised  me." 


i8o  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Oh,  glad  were  I  here  by  your  side, 

Full  many  an  hour  ago, 
But  for  what  there  passed  on  the  road 

All  so  mournfully  and  so  slow." 

"  And  what  have  you  met  on  the  road 
That  kept  you  so  long  and  so  late?  " 

"  O  full  many  an  hour  has  gone 
Since  I  left  my  father's  gate. 

"As  I  hastened  on  in  the  gloom, 
By  the  road  to  you  tonight, 

I  passed  the  corpse  of  a  young  maid 
All  clad  in  a  shroud  of  white." 

"  And  was  she  some  friend  once  cherished, 

Or  was  she  a  sister  dead, 
That  you  left  your  own  true  lover 

Till  the  trysting  hour  had  sped  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  see  who  it  might  be, 
Her  face  was  hidden  away, 

But  I  had  to  turn  and  follow 
Wherever  her  resting  lay." 

"And  did  it  go  up  by  the  town, 
Or  went  it  down  by  the  lake? 

I  know  there  are  but  two  church  yards 
Where  a  corpse  its  rest  may  take." 

"  They  did  not  go  by  the  town, 
Nor  by  the  lake  stayed  their  feet, 

But  buried   the  corpse  all   silently 
Where  the  four  cross  roads  meet." 


The  Fetch  181 

"  And  was  it  so  strange  a  sight 

That  you  should  go  like  a  child 
Thus  to  leave  me  to  wait,  forgotten, 

By  a  passing  sight  beguiled?" 

"  Oh,  I  heard  them  whisper  my  name, 
Each  mourner  that  passed  by  me; 

And  I  had  to  follow  their  path, 
Though  their  faces  I  could  not  see." 

"  And  right  well  I  would  like  to  know 
Who  this  fair  young  maid  might  be, 

So  take  my  hand,  my  own  true  love, 
And  hasten  along  with  me." 

He  did  not  go  down  by  the  lake 

He  did  not  go  by  the  town, 
But  carried  her  to  the  four  cross  roads, 

And  there  he  did  set  her  down. 

"  Now  I  see  no  track  of  a  foot, 

I  see  no  mark  of  a  spade, 
And   I   know  well   in   this  white   road 

There  never  a  grave  was  made." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  right  hand, 

And  he  led  her  to  town  away, 
And  there  he  questioned  the  old  priest, 

Did  he  bury  a  maid  that  day. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  right  hand, 
Down  to  the  church  by  the  lake, 

And  there  he  questioned  a  young  priest, 
If  a  maiden  her  life  did  take. 


1 82  The  Haunted  Hour 

But  there  was  no  tale  of  death 

In  all  the  parish  round, 
And  neither  had  heard  of  a  maid 

Thus  put  in  unholy  ground. 

He  loosed  her  hand  from  his  hand, 
And  turned  on  his  heel  away. 

"  I  know  you  are  false,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  lie  you  told  today." 

And  she  said,  "  Oh,  what  evil  things 
Did  tonight  my  senses  take?  " 

She  knelt  down  by  the  water  side 
And  wept  as  her  heart  would  break. 

And  she  said,  "  Oh,  what  fairy  sight 
Was  it  thus  my  grief  to  see! 

I'll  sleep  well  'neath  the  still  water, 
Since  my  love  has  turned  on  me." 

And  her  love  he  went  to  the  north, 
And  far  to  the  south  went  he, 

But  still  he  heard  her  distant  voice 
Call,  weeping  so  bitterly. 

He  could  not  rest  in  the  daytime, 
He  could  not  sleep  in  the  night, 

Hastened  back  to  the  old  road, 
With  the  trysting-place  in  sight. 

What  first  he  heard  was  his  love's  name, 
And  keening  both  loud  and  long; 

What  first  he  saw  was  his  love's  face 
At  the  head  of  a  mourning  throng. 


The  Banshee  183 

And  white  she  was  as  the  dead  are, 

And  never  a  move  made  she, 
But  passed  him  by  on  her  black  pall, 

Still  sleeping  so  peacefully. 

And  cold  she  was  as  the  dead  are, 

And  never  a  word  she  spake, 
When  they  said,  "  Unholy  is  her  grave, 

Since  she  her  life  did  take." 

Silent  she  was,  as  the  dead  are, 

And  never  a  cry  she  made 
When  there  came,  more  sad  than  the  keening, 

The  ring  of  a  digging  spade. 

No  rest  they  gave  in  the  town  church, 

No  grave  by  the  lake  so  sweet, 
But  buried  her  in  unholy  ground, 

Where  the  four  cross  roads  do  meet. 


THE  BANSHEE:  DORA  SIGERSON  SHORTER 

God  be  between  us  and  all  harm, 
For  I  to-night  have  seen 

A  banshee  in  the  shadow  pass 
Along  the  dark  boreen. 

And  as  she  went  she  keened  and  cried, 
And  combed  her  long  white  hair, 

She  stopped   at  Molly  Reilly's  door, 
And  sobbed  till  midnight  there. 


1 84  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  is  it  for  himself  she  moans, 

Who  is  so  far  away? 
Or  is  it  Molly  Reilly's  death 

She  cries  until  the  day? 

Now  Molly  thinks  her  man  has  gone 

A  sailor  lad  to  be; 
She  puts  a  candle  at  her  door 

Each  night  for  him  to  see. 

But  he  is  off  to  Galway  town, 
(And  who  dare  tell  her  this?) 

Enchanted  by  a  woman's  eyes, 
Half-maddened  by  her  kiss. 

So  as  we  go  by  Molly's  door 
We  look  towards  the  sea, 

And  say,  "  May  God  bring  home  your  lad 
Wherever  he  may  be." 

I  pray  it  may  be  Molly's  self 

The  banshee  keens  and  cries, 

For  who  dare  breathe  the  tale  to  her, 
Be  it  her  man  who  dies? 

But  there  is  sorrow  on  the  way, 
For  I  tonight  have  seen 

A  banshee  in  the  shadow  pass 
Along  the  dark  boreen. 


The  Seven  Whistlers  185 

THE  SEVEN  WHISTLERS  :  ALICE  E.  GILLINGTON 

Whistling  strangely,  whistling  sadly,  whistling  sweet  and 

clear, 
The  Seven  Whistlers  have  passed  thy  house,  Pentruan  of 

Porthmeor ; 
It  was  not  in  the  morning,  nor  the  noonday's  golden 

grace, 
It  was  in  the  dead  waste  midnight,  when  the  tide  yelped 

loud  in  the  Race: 
The  tide  swings  round  in  the  Race,  and  they're  plaining 

whisht  and  low, 
And  they  come  from  the  gray  sea-marshes,  where  the  gray 

sea-lavenders  grow, 

And  the  cotton-grass  sways  to  and  fro; 
And  the  gore-sprent  sundews  thrive 
With  oozy  hands  alive. 
Canst  hear  the  curlews'  whistle  through  thy  dreamings 

dark  and   drear, 

How  they're  crying,  crying,  crying,  Pentruan  of  Porth- 
meor? 

Shall  thy  hatchment,  mouldering  grimly  in  yon  church 
amid  the  sands, 

Stay  trouble  from  thy  household  ?  Or  the  carven  cherub- 
hands 

Which  hold  thy  shield  to  the  font  ?  Or  the  gauntlets  on 
the  wall 

Keep  evil  from  its  onward  course  as  the  great  tides  rise 
and  fall? 

The  great  tides  rise  and  fall,  and  the  cave  sucks  in  the 
breath 

Of  the  wave  when  it  runs  with  tossing  spray,  and  the 
ground-sea  rattles  of  Death; 


1 86  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  I  rise  in  the  shallows,"  'a  saith, 
"  Where  the  mermaid's  kettle  sings, 
And  the  black  shag  flaps  his  wings!  " 
Ay,  the  green  sea-mountain  leaping  may  lead  horror  in 

its  rear, 

When  thy  drenched  sail  leans  to  its  yawning  trough,  Pen- 
truan  of  Porthmeor! 

Yet  the  stoup  waits  at  thy  doorway  for  its  load  of  glitter- 
ing ore, 

And  thy  ships  lie  in  the  tideway,  and  thy  flocks  along 
the  moore; 

And  thine  arishes  gleam  softly  when  the  October  moon- 
beams wane, 

When  in  the  bay  all  shining  the  fishers  set  the  seine; 

The  fishers  cast  the  seine,  and  'tis  "  Heva !  "  in  the  town, 

And  from  the  watch-rock  on  the  hill  the  huers  are  shout- 
ing down; 

And  ye  hoist  the  mainsail  brown, 
As  over  the  deep-sea  roll 
The  lurker  follows  the  shoal; 

To  follow  and  to  follow,  in  the  moonshine  silver-clear, 

When  the  halyards  creek  to  thy  dipping  sail,  Pentruan  of 
Porthmeor ! 

And  wailing,  and  complaining,  and  whistling  whisht  and 

clear, 
The  Seven  Whistlers  have  passed  thy  house,  Pentruan  of 

Porthmeor ! 
It  was  not  in   the  morning,   nor  the  noonday's  golden 

grace, — 
It  was  in   the   fearsome  midnight,   when   the   tide-dogs 

yelped  in  the  Race: 


The  Victor  187 

The  tide  swings  round  in  the  Race,  and  they're  whistling 

whisht  and  low, 

And  they  come  from  the  lonely  heather,  where  the  fur- 
edged  fox-gloves  blow, 

And  the  moor-grass  sways  to  and  fro, 
Where  the  yellow  moor-birds  sigh, 
And  the  sea-cooled  wind  sweeps  by. 
Canst  hear  the  curlew's  whistle  through  the  darkness 

wild  and  drear, — 

How  they're  calling,  calling,  calling,  Pentruan  of  Porth- 
meor? 


THE  VICTOR:  THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

The  live  man  victorious 

Rode  spurring  from  the  fight; 

In  a  glad  voice  and  glorious 
He  sang  of  his  delight, 

And  dead  men  three,  foot-loose  and  free, 
Came  after  in  the  night. 

And  one  laid  hand  on  his  bridle-rein — 
Swift  as  the  steed  he  sped — 

"  O,  ride  you  fast,  yet  at  the  last, 
Hate  faster  rides,"  he  said. 

"  My  sons  shall  know  their  father's  foe 
One  day  when  blades  are  red." 

And  one  laid  hand  on  his  stirrup-bar 
Like  touch  o'  driven  mist, 

"  For  joy  you  slew  ere  joy  I  knew, 
For  one  girl's  mouth  unkissed, 

At  your  board's  head,  at  mass,  at  bed, 
My  pale  ghost  shall  persist." 


1 88  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  one  laid  hands  on  his  own  two  hands, 
"  O  Brother  o'  mine,"  quoth  he, 

"  What  can  I  give  to  you  who  live 
Like  gift  you  gave  to  me? 

Since  from  grief  and  strife  and  ache  o'  life 
Your  sword-stroke  set  me  free." 

The  live  man  victorious 

Rode  spurring  from  the  fight; 

In  a  glad  voice  and  glorious 
He  sang  of  his  delight, 

And  dead  men  three,  foot-loose  and  free, 
Came  after  in  the  night. 


MAWGAN  OF  MELHUACH  :  ROBERT  STEPHEN 

HAWKER 

'Twas  a  fierce  night  when  old  Mawgan  died: 
Men  shuddered  to  hear  the  rolling  tide: 
The  wreckers  fled  fast  from  the  awful  shore, 
They  had  heard  strange  voices  amid  the  roar. 

"  Out  with  the  boat  there,"  someone  cried, — 
"Will  he  never  come?    We  shall  lose  the  tide: 
His  berth  is  trim  and  his  cabin  stored, 
He's  a  weary  long  time  coming  aboard." 

The  old  man  struggled  upon  the  bed : 

He  knew  the  words  that  the  voices  said; 

Wildly  he  shrieked  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

"  He  was  dead!    He  was  dead  when  I  buried  him." 


The  Mother's  Ghost  189 

Hark  yet  again  to  the  devilish  roar! 
"  He  was  nimbler  once  with  a  ship  on  shore; 
Come,  come,  old  man,  'tis  a  vain  delay, 
We  must  make  the  offing  by  break  of  day." 

Hard  was  the  struggle,  but  at  the  last 
With  a  stormy  pang  old  Mawgan  passed, 
And  away,   away,   beneath  their  sight, 
Gleamed  the  red  sail  at  pitch  of  night. 


THE    MOTHER'S    GHOST:    HENRY    WADSWORTH 

LONGELLOW 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade; 

/  myself  was  young. 
There  he  has  wooed  him  so  winsome  a  maid  ; 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 

Together  were  they  for  seven  years, 
And  together  children  six  were  theirs; 

Then  came  Death  abroad  through  the  land, 
And  blighted  the  beautiful  lily-wand. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade, 
And  again  hath  he  wooed  him  another  maid. 

He  hath  wooed  him  a  maid  and  brought  home  a 

bride, 
But  she  was  bitter  and  full  of  pride. 

When  she  came  driving  into  the  yard, 
There  stood  the  six  children  weeping  so  hard. 


The  Haunted  Hour 

There  stood   the   small   children  with   sorrowful 

heart ; 
From  before  her  feet  she  thrust  them  apart. 

She  gave  to  them  neither  ale  nor  bread; 
"  Ye  shall  suffer  hunger  and  hate,"  she  said. 

She  took  from  them  their  quilts  of  blue, 

And  said,  "  Ye  shall  lie  on  the  straw  we  strew." 

She  took  from  them  the  great  wax  light, 
"  Now  ye  shall  lie  in  the  dark  at  night." 

In  the  evning  late  they  cried  with  cold, 
The  mother  heard  it  under  the  mould. 

The  woman  heard  it  in  the  earth  below: 
"To  my  little  children  I  must  go." 

She  standeth  before  the  Lord  of  all: 
"And  may  I  go  to  my  children  small?" 

She  prayed  Him  so  long  and  would  not  cease, 
Until  He  bade  her  depart  in  peace. 

"  At  cock-crow  thou  shalt  return  again ; 
Longer  thou  shalt  not  there  remain !  " 

She  girded  up  her  sorrowful  bones, 
And  rifted  the  walls  and  the  marble  stones. 

As  through  the  village  she  flitted  by, 
The  watch-dogs  howled  aloud  to  the  sky. 


The  Mothers  Ghost  191 

When  she  came  to  the  castle  gate, 
There  stood  her  eldest  daughter  in  wait. 

"  Why  standest  thou  here,  dear  daughter  mine  ? 
How  fares  it  with  brothers  and  sisters  thine?  " 

"  Never  art  thou  mother  of  mine, 
For  my  mother  was  both  fair  and  fine. 

"  My  mother  was  white,  with  cheeks  of  red, 
But  thou  art  pale  and  like  to  the  dead." 

"  How  should  I  be  fair  and  fine? 

I  have  been  dead;  pale  cheeks  are  mine. 

"  How  should  I  be  white  and  red, 
So  long,  so  long  have  I  been  dead  ?  " 

When  she  came  in  at  the  chamber  door, 
There  stood  the  small  children  weeping  sore. 

One  she  braided  and  one  she  brushed, 

The  third  she  lifted,  the  fourth  she  hushed. 

The  fifth  she  took  on  her  lap  and  pressed, 
As  if  she  would  suckle  it  at  her  breast. 

Then  to  her  eldest  daughter  said  she, 

"  Do  thou  bid  Svend  Dyring  come  hither  to  me." 

Into  the  chamber  when  he  came 

She  spake   to  him   in  anger  and  shame. 

"  I  left  behind  me  both  ale  and  bread ; 
My  children  hunger  and  are  not  fed. 


1 92  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  I  left  behind  me  the  quilts  of  blue ; 
My  children  lie  on  the  straw  ye  strew. 

"  I  left  behind  me  the  great  wax  light ; 
My  children  lie  in  the  dark  at  night. 

"  If  I  come  again  into  your  hall, 
As  cruel  a  fate  shall  you  befall! 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  red, 
Back  to  the  earth  must  all  the  dead. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  swart ; 
The  gates  of  heaven  fly  wide  apart. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  white ; 
I  can   abide  no   longer  to-night." 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  wail, 
They  gave  the  children  bread  and  ale. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bay, 
Thy  feared  lest  the  dead  were  on  their  way. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bark, 

/  myself  was  young. 
They  feared  the  dead  out  there  in  the  dark. 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 


THE  DEAD  MOTHER  :  ROBERT  BUCHANAN 

i 

As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
Under  the  grass  as  I  lay  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep  in  my  cotton  serk 
Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  Kirk, 


The  Dead  Mother  193 

I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 

I  waken'd  up  in  my  death-serk  white, 

And  I  heard  a  cry  from  far  away, 

And  I  knew  the  voice  of  my  daughter  May: 

"Mother,  Mother,  come  hither  to  me! 

Mother,  Mother,  come  hither  and  see! 

Mother,  Mother,  Mother  dear, 

Another  Mother  is  sitting  here: 

My  body  is  bruised  and  in  pain  I  cry, 

On  straw  in  the  dark  afraid  I  lie, 

I  thirst  and  hunger  for  drink  and  meat, 

And  Mother,  Mother,  to  sleep  were  sweet!  " 

I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 

And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep. 

2 

I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 

Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep! 

The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 

The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red; 

And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 

And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in, 

And  reached  the  chamber  as  dark  as  night, 

And  though  it  was  dark,  my  face  was  white: 

"  Mother,   Mother,  I  look  on  thee ! 

Mother,   Mother,  you  frighten  me! 

For  your  cheeks  are  thin  and  your  hair  is  gray!  " 

But  I  smiled  and  kissed  her  fears  away, 

I  smooth'd  her  hair  and  I  sang  a  song, 

And  on  my  knee  I  rocked  her  long: 

"  O  Mother,  Mother,  sing  low  to  me — 

I  am  sleepy  now,  and  I  cannot  see !  " 

I  kissed  her,  but  I  could  not  weep, 

And  she  went  to  sleep,  and  she  went  to  sleep. 


194  The  Haunted  Hour 

3 

As  we  lay  asleep,  as  we  lay  asleep, 
My  May  and  I,  in  our  grave  so  deep, 
As  we  lay  asleep  in  the  midnight  mirk, 
Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  Kirk, 
I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 
Though  May  my  daughter  lay  warm  and  white, 
For  I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 
And  I  knew  'twas  the  voice  of  Hugh  my  son : 
"  Mother,  Mother,  come  hither  to  me ; 
Mother,  Mother,  come  hither  and  see! 
Mother,  Mother,  Mother  dear, 
Another  Mother  is  sitting  here: 
My  body  is  bruised  and  my  heart  is  sad, 
But  I  speak  my  mind  and  call  them  bad; 
I  thirst  and  hunger  night  and  day, 
And  were  I  strong  I  would  fly  away!" 
I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 
And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep! 


4 

I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 
Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep, 
The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 
The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red; 
And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 
And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in. 
"  Mother,  Mother,  and  art  thou  here? 
I  know  your  face  and  I  feel  no  fear; 
Raise  me,  Mother,  and  kiss  my  cheek, 
For  oh  I  am  weary  and  sore  and  weak." 
I  smoothed  his  hair  with  a  mother's  joy, 
And  he  laugh'd  aloud,  my  own  brave  boy: 


The  Dead  Mother  195 

I  raised  and  held  him  on  my  breast, 
Sang  him  a  song,  and  bade  him  rest. 
"  Mother,  Mother,  sing  low  to  me — 
I  am  sleepy  now  and  I  cannot  see !  " 
I  kissed  him  and  I  could  not  weep, 
As  he  went  to  sleep,  as  he  went  to  sleep. 

5 

As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
With  my  girl  and  boy  in  my  grave  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep,  I  awoke  in  fear, 
Awoke,  but  awoke  not  my  children  dear, 
And  I  heard  a  cry  so  low  and  weak 
From  a  tiny  voice  that  could  not  speak; 
I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 
My  bairn  that  could  neither  talk  nor  run, 
My  little,  little  one,  uncaress'd, 
Starving  for  lack  of  the  milk  of  the  breast; 
And  I  rose  from  sleep  and  enter'd  in, 
And  found  my  little  one,  pinch'd  and  thin, 
And  croon'd  a  song,  and  hush'd  its  moan, 
And  put  its  lips  to  my  white  breast-bone ; 
And  the  red,  red  moon  that  lit  the  place 
Went  white  to  look  at  the  little  face, 
And  I  kiss'd  and  kiss'd  and  I  could  not  weep, 
As  it  went  to  sleep,  as  it  went  to  sleep. 

6 

As  it  lay  asleep,  as  it  lay  asleep, 
I  set  it  down  in  the  darkness  deep, 
Smooth'd  its  limbs  and  laid  it  out, 
And  drew  the  curtains  round  about; 
Then  into  the  dark,  dark  room  I  hied 
Where  he  lay  awake  at  the  woman's  side, 


ig6  The  Haunted  Hour 

And  though  the  chamber  was  black  as  night, 
He  saw  my  face,  for  it  was  so  white; 
I  gazed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  shrieked  in  pain, 
And  I  knew  he  would  never  sleep  again, 
And  back  to  my  grave  went  silently, 
And  soon  my  baby  was  brought  to  me; 
My  son  and  daughter  beside  me  rest, 
My  little  baby  is  on  my  breast; 
Our  bed  is  warm  and  our  grave  is  deep, 
But  he  cannot  sleep,  he  cannot  sleep! 


LEGENDS  AND  BALLADS  OF  THE  DEAD 


THE  FOLK  OF  THE  AIR  :  WM.  BUTLER  YEATS 

O'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song, 
The  wild  duck  and  the  drake 

From  the  tall  and  the  tufted  weeds 
Of  the  drear  Heart  Lake. 

And  he  saw  how  the  weeds  grew  dark 
At  the  coming  of  night  tide, 

And  he  dreamed  of  the  long  dark  hair 
Of  Bridget  his  bride. 

He  heard  while  he  sang  and  dreamed 

A  piper  passing  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 

And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 

And  he  saw  young  men  and  young  girls 
Who  danced  on  a  level  place, 

And  Bridget  his  bride  among  them, 
With  a  sad  and  a  gay  face. 

The  dancers  crowded  about  him, 
And  many  a  sweet  thing  said, 

And  a  young  man  brought  him  red  wine, 
And  a  young  girl  white  bread. 

But  Bridget  drew  him  by  the  sleeve, 
Away  from  the  merry  bands, 

To  old  men  playing  at  cards 

With  a  twinkling  of  ancient  hands. 
199 


200  The  Haunted  Hour 

The  bread  and  the  wine  had  a  doom, 
For  these  were  the  folk  of  the  air; 

He  sat  and  played  in  a  dream 
Of  her  long  dim  hair. 

He  played  with  the  merry  old  men, 
And  thought  not  of  evil  chance, 

Until  one  bore  Bridget  his  bride 
Away  from  the  merry  dance. 

He  bore  her  away  in  his  arms, 

The  handsomest  young  man  there, 

And  his  neck  and  his  breast  and  his  arms 
Were  drowned  in  her  long  dim  hair. 

O'Driscoll  got  up   from  the  grass 
And  scattered  the  cards  with  a  cry; 

But  the  old  men  and  the  dancers  were  gone 
As  a  cloud  faded  into  the  sky. 

He  knew  now  the  folk  of  the  air, 

And  his  heart  was  blackened  by  dread, 

And  he  ran  to  the  door  of  his  house; 
Old  women  were  keening  the  dead. 

And  he  heard  high  up  in  the  air 

A  piper  piping  away; 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad 

And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 


The  Reconciliation  201 


THE  RECONCILIATION  :  A.  MARGARET  RAMSAY 

"  The  snow  has  ceased,  the  wind  has  hushed, 
The  moon  shines  fair  and  clear, 

The  night  is  drawing  on  apace, 
Yet  Evan  is  not  here. 

"  The  deer  is  couched  among  the  fern, 
The  bird   sleeps  on   the  tree; 

0  what  can  keep  my  only  son, 

He  bides  so  long  from  me?  " 

"  O  mother,  come  and  take  your  rest, 

Since  Evan  stays  so  late; 
If  we  leave  the  door  unbarred  for  him, 

What  need  to  sit  and  wait?  " 

"  Now  hold  your  peace,  my  daughter, 
Be  still  and  let  me  be, 

1  will  not  seek  my  bed  this  night 

Until  my  son  I  see." 

And  she  has  left  the  door  unbarred, 

And  by  the  fire  sat  still; 
She  drew  her  mantle  her  about 

As  the  winter  night  grew  chill. 

The  moon  had  set  beyond  the  moor, 
And  half  the  night  had  gone, 

When  standing  silent  by  her  side 
She  saw  Evan  her  son. 

"  I  did  not  hear  your  step,  Evan, 
Nor  hear  you  lift  the  pin." 

"  I  would  not  wake  my  sister,  mother, 
So  softly  I  came  in." 


2O2  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Now  sit  ye  down  and  rest,  Evan, 
And  I  will  give  you  meat." 

"  I  have  been  with  my  cousin  John,  mother, 
And  he  gave  me  to  eat." 

"  Then  have  ye  laid  the  quarrel  by 
That  was  'twixt  him  and  you, 

And  given  each  other  pledge  of  faith 
Ye  will  be  friends  anew?" 

"  We  have  laid  the  quarrel  by,  mother, 

Forevermore  to  sleep, 
And  he  has  given  me  his  knife, 

As  pledge  of  faith  to  keep." 

"  O  is  it  blood  or  is  it  rust 

That  makes  the  knife  so  red, 

Or  is  it  but  the  red  firelight 

That's  shining  on  the  blade  ?  " 

"  No  rust  is  on  the  blade,  mother, 
Nor  the  firelight's  ruddy  hue; 

The  bright  blood  ran  upon  the  knife 
To  seal  our  compact  true." 

"O  is  it  with  the  pale  gray  gleam 
That  comes  before  the  dawn, 

Or  are  ye  weary  with  the  road 

That  ye  look  so  ghastly  wan  ?  " 

"A  long  and  weary  road,  mother, 
I  fared  to  reach  my  home, 

And  I  must  get  me  to  my  bed 
That  waits  for  me  to  come," 


The  Priest's  Brother  203 

"  The  night  is  bitter  cold,  Evan, 

See  that  your  bed  be  warm, 
And  take  your  plaid  to  cover  you, 

Lest  the  cold  should  do  you  harm." 

"  Ye*:,  cold,  cold  is  the  night,  mother, 

Yet  soundly  do  I  rest, 
With  the  bleak  North  wind  to  cover  me, 

And  the  snow  white  on  my  breast." 


THE  PRIEST'S  BROTHER  :  DORA  SIGERSON 

SHORTER 

Thrice  in  the  night  the  priest  arose 
From  broken  sleep  to  kneel  and  pray. 
"  Hush,  poor  ghost,  till  the  red  cock  crows, 
And  I  a  Mass  for  your  soul  may  say." 

Thrice  he  went  to  the  chamber  cold 
Where,  stiff  and  still  uncoffined 
His  brother  lay,  his  beads  he  told, 
And  "  Rest,  poor  spirit,  rest,"  he  said. 

Thrice  lay  the  old  priest  down  to  sleep 
Before  the  morning  bell  should  toll; 
But  still  he  heard — and  woke  to  weep — 
The  crying  of  his  brother's  soul. 

All  through  the  dark,  till  dawn  was  pale, 
The  priest  tossed  in  his  misery, 
With  muffled  ears  to  hide  the  wail 
The  voice  of  that  ghost's  agony. 


204  The  Haunted  Hour 

At  last  the  red  cock  flaps  his  wings, 
To  trumpet  of  a  day  new  born. 
The  lark,   awaking,   soaring,   sings 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  morn. 

The  priest  before  the  altar  stands 
He  hears  the  spirit  call  for  peace; 
He  beats  his  breast  with  shaking  hands. 
"  Oh,  Father,  grant  this  soul's  release. 

Most  Just  and  Merciful,  set  free 
From  Purgatory's  awful  night 
This  sinner's  soul,  to  fly  to  Thee 
And  rest  forever  in  Thy  sight." 

The  Mass  is  over — still  the  clerk 
Kneels  pallid  in  the  morning  glow. 
He  said,  "  From  evils  of  the  dark 
Oh,  bless  me,  father,  ere  you  go. 

"  Benediction,  that  I  may  rest, 
For  all  night  did  the  banshee  weep." 
The  priest  raised  up  his  hands  and  blest — 
"  Go  now,  my  child,  and  you  will  sleep." 

The  priest  went  down  the  vestry  stair, 
He  laid  his  vestments  in  their  place, 
And  turned — a  pale  ghost  met  him  there 
With  beads  of  pain  upon  his  face. 

"  Brother,"  he  said,  "  you  have  gained  me  peace, 
But  why  so  long  did  you  know  my  tears, 
And  say  no  Mass  for  my  soul's  release 
To  save  the  torture  of  those  years  ?  " 


The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot  205 

"  God  rest  you,  brother,"  the  good  priest  said, 
"  No  years  have  passed — but  a  single  night." 
He  showed  the  body  uncoffined 
And  the  six  wax  candles  still  alight. 

The  living  flowers  on  the  dead  man's  breast 
Blew  out  a  perfume  sweet  and  strong. 
The  spirit  paused  ere  he  passed  to  rest — 
"  God  save  your  soul  from  a  night  so  long." 


THE   BALLAD   OF  JUDAS    ISCARIOT  :  ROBERT 

BUCHANAN 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky: 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Though  the  red  Moon  went  by. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Looked  on  in  its  despair. 

The  breath  of  the  World  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  World's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 


206  The  Haunted  Hour 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 

"  I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 
My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

"  I  will  bury  it  deep  beneath  the  soil, 
Lest  mortals  look  thereon, 

And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 
My  body  will  be  gone! 

"  The  stones  of  the  field  are  sharp  as  steel, 
And  hard  and  cold,  God  wot; 

And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 
Until  I  find  a  spot !  " 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
So  grim,  and  gaunt  and  grey, 

Raised  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 
Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice, 

And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 
Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried   its  load   with   pain, 

The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lantern's  eye, 
Opened  and  shut  again. 

Half  he  walked,  and  half  he  seemed 
Lifted  on  the  cold  wind; 

He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 
Were  pushing  from  behind. 


The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot  207 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold, 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins, 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool, 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated,  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back 

And  it  was  drippping  chill, 
And  the  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill. 

A  Cross  upon  the  windy  hill, 

And  a  Cross  on  either  side, 
Three  skeletons  that  swung  thereon, 

Who  had  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light, 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawned  wide  and  vast, 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shivered  and  glided  past. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 

Were  deep  and  swift  and  red. 


208  The  Haunted  Hour 

He  dared  not  fling  the  body  in 

For  fear  of  faces  dim, 
And  arms  were  waved  in  the  wild  water 

To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turned  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And  the  dreadful  foam  of  the  wild  water 
Had  splashed  the  body  red. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

Upon  an  open  plain, 
And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on 
All  through  the  Wood  of  Woe; 

And  the  nights  went  by  like  the  moaning  wind 
And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Came  with  a  weary  face — 

Alone,  alone,   and  all  alone, 
Alone  in  a  lonely  place! 

He  wandered  east  and  he  wandered  west, 
And  heard  no  human  sound; 

For  months  and  years  in  grief  and  tears, 
He  wandered  round  and  round. 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 
He  walked  the  silent  night, 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Perceived  a  far-off  light. 


The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot  209 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste, 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be, 
That  came  and  went  like  a  lighthouse  gleam, 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Crawled  to  the  distant  gleam, 
And   the  rain  came  down,   and  the  rain   was 
blown 

Against  him  with  a  scream. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

Pushed  on  by  hands  unseen, 
And  the  days  went  by  like  black,  black  rain, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange  and  sad  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  all  the  wold  was  white  with  snow, 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  Moon  arose, 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 

And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white, 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Passed  on  the  window-light. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretched  along  the  snow. 


210  The  Haunted  Hour 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretched  along  the  snow, 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there, 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head, 
And  the  lights  burned  bright  and  clear — '• 

"Oh,  who  is  there?"  the  Bridegroom  said, 
"Whose  weary  feet  I  hear?" 

'Twas  one  looked  up  from  the  lighted  hall, ' 
And  answered  soft  and  low, 

"  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down, 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white, 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without?  " 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall, 
And  answered  fierce  and  low, 

'  'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Gliding  to  and  fro." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Did  hush  itself  and  stand, 

And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 
With  a  light  in  his  hand. 


The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot  211 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  long  and  bright. 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked 
And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 

"  What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 
With  thy  body's  sins?"  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 

"  I  have  wandered  many  nights  and  days; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

.'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

"  Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night !  " 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 
The  air  was  full  of  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 
Before  it  touched  the  ground, 

There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 
Made  sweet  sound. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding  sheet. 


212  The  Haunted  Hour 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door, 
And  beckoned,  smiling  sweet; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stole  in  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 
And  the  many  candles  shine, 

And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 
Before  I  poured  the  wine !  " 

The  supper  wine  is  poured  at  last, 

And  the  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 

Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 
And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  JOHN  :  WALTER  SCOTT 

The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  the  day, 

He  spurr'd  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay  down  the  rocky  way, 

That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

His  banner  broad  to  rear; 
He  went  not  'gainst  the  English  yew, 

To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack  was  braced,  and  his  helmet  wa: 
laced, 

And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore: 
At  his  saddle-girth  was  a  good  steel  sperthe, 

Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 


The  Eve  of  St.  John  213 

The  Baron  return'd  in  three  days'  space, 

And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour, 
And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace, 

As  he  reach'd  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor 

Ran  red  with  English  blood; 
Where  the  Douglas  true  and  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

'Gainst  keen  Lord  Evers  stood. 

Yet  was  his  helmet  hack'd  and  hew'd, 

His  acton  pierced  and  tore, 
His  axe  and  his  dagger  with  blood  imbrued, — 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 

He  held  him  close  and  still; 
And  he  whistled  thrice  for  his  little  foot-page; 

His  name  was  English  Will. 

"  Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page, 

Come  hither  to  my  knee; 
Though  thou  art  young  and  tender  of  age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"  Come  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen, 

And  look  thou  tell  me  true! 
Since  I  from  Smaylho'me  tower  have  been. 

What  did  my  ladye  do?" — 

"  My  lady  each  night,  sought  the  lonely  light, 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold ; 

For  from  height  to  height,  the  beacons  bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 


214  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  The  bittern  clamor'd  from  the  moss, 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill; 

Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross 
To  the  eiry  Beacon  Hill. 

"  I  watch'd  her  steps,  and  silent  came 
Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone; — 

No  watchman  stood  by  the  dreary  flame, 
It  burned  all  alone. 

"  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight, 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,  by  Mary's  might!  an  Armed  Knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 

"  And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 

Did  speak  to  my  lady  there; 
But  the  rain  fell  fast  and  loud  blew  the  blast, 

And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

"  The  third  night  there,  the  night  was  fair, 
And  the  mountain-blast  was  still, 

As  again  I  watch'd  the  secret  pair, 
On  the  lonesome  Beacon  Hill. 

"And  I  heard  her  name  the  midnight  hour, 

And  name  this  holy  eve; 
And  say  '  Come  this  night  to  thy  lady's  bower, 

Ask  no  bold  Baron's  leave. 

"  '  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buccleuch ; 

His  lady  is  all  alone; 
The  door  she'll  undo,  to  her  knight  so  true 

On  the  eve  of  the  good  St.  John.' — 


The  Eve  of  St.  John  215 

' '  I  cannot  come,  I  must  not  come : 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee; 
On  the  eve  of  St.  John  I  must  wander  alone, 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.' — 

"  '  Now,  out  on  thee,  faint-hearted  knight ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  say  me  nay; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and  when  lovers  meet, 

Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

"  '  And  I'll  chain  the  blood-hound,  and  the  warder 
shall  not  sound, 

And  rushes  shall  be  strew'd  on  the  stair: 
So  by  the  black-rood  stone,  and  by  holy  St.  John, 

I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  to  be  there ! ' 

" '  Though  the  blood-hound  be  mute  and  the  rush 
beneath  my  foot, 

And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not  blow, 
Yet  there  sleepeth  a  priest  in  a  chamber  to  the  east, 

And  my  foot-step  he  would  know.' — 

" '  O  fear  not  the  priest,  who  sleepeth  to  the  east, 
For  to  Dryburgh  the  way  he  has  ta'en, 

And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do  pass, 
For  the  soul  of  a  knight  that  is  slayne.' 

"  He  turn'd  him  around  and  grimly  he  f  rown'd ; 

Then  he  laugh'd  right  scornfully — 
'  He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul  of  that 
knight, 

May  as  well  say  mass  for  me! 


2l6  The  Haunted  Hour 

1  ( At  the  lone  midnight  hour,  when  bad  spirits  have 

power, 

In  thy  chamber  will  I  be ' — 
With  that  he  was  gone  and  my  lady  left  alone, 
And  no  more  did  I  see." 

Then  changed,  I  trow,  was  that  bold  Baron's  brow, 
From  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high; 

"  Now  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight  thou  hast  seen, 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die!"— 

"  His  arms  shone  full  bright,  in  the  beacon's  red 
light, 

His  plume,  it  was  scarlet  and  blue, 
On  his  shield  was  a  hound,  in  a  silver  leash  bound, 

And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew." 

"  Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot-page, 

Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me! 
For  that  knight  is  cold  and  laid  in  the  mould, 

All  under  the  Eildon-tree." — 

"  Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name; 
And  that  lady  bright  she  called  the  knight 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame !  " 

The  bold  Baron's  brow  then  changed,  I  trow, 
From  the  high  blood-red  to  pale — 

"  The  grave   is  deep  and  dark — and   the  corpse  is 

'stiff  and  stark — 
So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 


The  Eve  of  St.  John  217 

"  Where  fair  Tweed  flows  round  holy  Melrose, 

And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain. 
Full  three  nights  ago,  by  some  secret  foe, 

That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"  The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 

And  the  wild  winds  drown'd  the  name; 

For  the  Dry  burgh  bells  ring,  and  the  white  monks 

do  sing, 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame!  " 

He  pass'd  the  court-gate,  and  he  oped  the  tower-gate, 
And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair, 

To  the  bartizan-seat,  where,  with  maids  that  on  her 

wait, 
He  found  his  lady  fair. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood; 

Look'd  o'er  hill  and  vale ; 
Over  Tweed's  fair  flood,  and  Mertoun's  wood, 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 

"  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright!  " — 

"  Now  hail,  thou  Baron,  true! 
What  news,  what  news  from  Ancram  fight? 

What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch  ?  " 

"  The  Ancram  moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  Southron  fell; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us,  evermore, 

To  watch  our  beacons  well." — 

The  lady  blush'd  red,  but  nothing  she  said: 

Nor  added  the  Baron  a  word, 
Then  she  stepp'd  down  the  stair  to  her  chamber  fair, 

And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 


2i8  The  Haunted  Hour 

In  sleep  the  lady  mourn'd  and  the  Baron  toss'd  and 

turn'd, 

And  oft  to  himself  he  said : — 
"  The  worms  round  him  creep,  and  his  bloody  grave 

is  deep. 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead !  " 

It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bell, 

The  night  was  well-nigh  done, 
When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  Baron  fell, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John. 

The  lady  look'd  through  the  chamber  fair, 

By  the  light  of  the  dying  flame; 
And  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  stood  there — 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame! 

"  Alas !  away !   away !  "  she  cried, 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake!  "— 
"  Lady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side, 

But,  lady,  he  will  not  wake. 

"  By  Eildon-tree,  for  long  nights  three, 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain; 
The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said  for  me, 

But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

"  By  the  Baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair  strand, 

Most  foully  slain  I  fell; 
And  my  restless  sprite  on  the  beacon's  height, 

For  a  space  is  doom'd  to  dwell. 

"  At  our  trysting  place,  for  a  certain  space, 

I  must  wander  to  and  fro, 
But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy  bower, 

Hadst  thou  not  conjured  me  so." 


The  Eve  of  St.  John  219 

Love  master'd  fear — her  brow  she  cross'd; 

"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped  ? 
And  art  thou  saved  or  art  thou  lost?  " — 

The  vision  shook  his  head! 

"Who  spilleth  life,  shall  forfeit  life; 

So  bid  thy  lord  believe: 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above, 

This  awful  sign  receive." 

He  laid  his  left  hand  on  an  oaken  beam, 

His  right  upon  her  hand, 
The  lady  shrunk,  and  fainting  sunk, 

For  it  scorched  like  a  fiery  brand. 

The  sable  score,  of  fingers  four, 

Remains  on  that  board  impress'd, 
And  forever  more  that  lady  wore 

A  covering  on  her  wrist. 

There  is  a  nun  in  Dryburgh  bower, 

Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun, 
There  is  a  monk  in  Melrose  tower, 

He  speaketh  word  to  none. 

That  nun,  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day, 
That  monk  that  speaks  to  none, — 

That  Nun  was  Smaylho'me's  Lady  gay, 
That  monk  the  bold  Baron. 


220  The  Haunted  Hour 


FAIR  MARGARET'S  MISFORTUNES 

"  I  am  no  love  for  you,  Margaret, 

You  are  no  love  for  me. 
Before  to-morrow  at  eight  of  the  clock, 

A  rich  wedding  you  shall  see." 


Fair  Margaret  sat  in  her  bower-window 

Combing  her  yellow  hair; 
There  she  espied  sweet  William  and  his  bride, 

As  they  were  a-riding  near. 

Down  she  laid  her  ivory  comb, 

And  up  she  bound  her  hair; 
She  went  away  out  of  her  bower, 

And  never  returned  there. 

When  day  was  gone  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  men  fast  asleep, 
There  came  the  spirit  of  fair  Marg'ret, 

And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

"Are  you  awake,  sweet  William?"  she  said, 
"  Or,  William,  are  you  asleep  ? 

God  give  you  joy  of  your  gay  bride-bed, 
And  me  of  my  winding  sheet." 

When  day  was  come  and  night  was  gone, 
And  all  men  waked  in  from  sleep, 

Sweet  William  to  his  ladye  said, — 
"  Alas  I  have  cause  to  weep. 


Fair  Margaret's  Misfortunes  221 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream,  my  dear  ladye, — 

Such  dreams  are  never  good, — 
I  dreamt  my  bower  was  full  of  red  swine, 

And  the  walls  ran  down  with  blood." 

He  called  up  his  merrymen  all, 

By  one,  by  two,  and  by  three; 
Saying,  "  I'll  away  to  fair  Margaret's  bower, 

By  the  leave  of  my  ladye." 

And  when  he  came  to  fair  Margaret's  bower, 

He  knocked  at  the  ring; 
And  who  so  ready  as  her  seven  brethren, 

To  let  sweet  William  in. 

He  turned  down  the  covering-sheet, 

To  see  the  face  of  the  dead; 
"  Methinks  she  looks  all  pale  and  wan ; 

She  hath  lost  her  cherry  red. 

"  I  would  do  more  for  thee,  Margaret, 

Than  would  any  of  thy  kin. 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  pale  cold  lips, 

Though  a  smile  I  cannot  win." 

With  that  bespake  the  seven  brethren, 

Making  most  piteous  moan, 
"  You  may  go  and  kiss  your  jolly  brown  bride, 

And  let  our  sister  alone !  " 

"  If  I  do  kiss  my  jolly  brown  bride, 

I  do  but  what  is  right; 
I  ne'er  made  a  vow  to  yonder  poor  corpse, 

By  day,  nor  yet  by  night." 


222  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  Deal  on,  deal  on,  ye  merrymen  all, 
Deal  on  your  cake  and  wine. 

Whatever  is  dealt  at  her  funeral  to-day, 
Shall  be  dealt  to-morrow  at  mine ! " 

Fair  Margaret  died  as  it  might  be  to-day, 
Sweet  William  he  died  the  morrow, 

Fair  Margaret  died  for  pure  true  love, 
Sweet  William  he  died  for  sorrow. 

Margaret  was  buried  in  the  lower  chancel, 

And  William  in  the  higher; 
And  out  of  her  breast  there  sprang  a  rose  tree, 

And  out  of  his  a  brier. 

They  grew  till  they  grew  unto  the  church-top, 
And  when  they  could  grow  no  higher; 

And  there  they  tied  a  true  lover's  knot, 
Which  made  all  the  people  admire. 

At  last  the  clerk  of  the  parish  came, 
As  the  truth  doth  well  appear, 

And  by  misfortune  he  cut  them  down, 
Or  else  they  had  now  been  here. 


SWEET  WILLIAM'S  GHOST 

There  came  a  ghost  to  Marjorie's  door, 

Wi*  many  a  grievous  moan, 
And  aye  he  tirled  at  the  pin, 

But  answer  made  she  none. 


Sweet  Williams  Ghost  223 

"  Oh,  say,  is  that  my  father  ? 

Or  is't  my  brother  John? 
Or  is  it  my  true  love  Willy, 

From  Scotland  new  come  home?" 

'  'Tis  not  thy  father,  Marjorie, 

Nor  not  thy  brother  John; 
But  'tis  thy  true  love  Willy 

From  Scotland  new  come  home. 

"Oh  Marjorie  sweet!  oh  Marjorie  dear! 

For  faith  and  charitie, 
Will  ye  gie  me  back  my  faith  and  troth 

That  I  gave  once  to  thee  ?  " 

"  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou  gavest  to  me, 

And  again  thou'lt  never  win, 
Until  thou  come  within  my  bower 

And  kiss  me  cheek  and  chin." 

"  My  lips  they  are  sae  bitter,"  he  says, 

"  My  breath  it  is  sae  strang, 
If  ye  get  ae  kiss  from  me  to-night, 

Your  days  will  not  be  lang. 

"  The  cocks  are  crawing,  Marjorie, — 

The  cocks  are  crawing  again: 
The  dead  wi'  the  quick  they  mustna  stay, 

And  I  must  needs  be  gone." 

She  followed  him  high,  she  followed  him  low, 
Till  she  came  to  yon  church-yard  green, 

And  there  the  deep  grave  opened  up, 
And  young  William  he  lay  down. 


224  The  Haunted  Hour 

"  What  three  things  are  these,  sweet  William, 
That  stand  beside  your  head  ?  " 

"O  it's  three  maidens,  Marjorie, 
That  once  I  promised  to  wed." 

"  What  three  things  are  these,  sweet  William, 
That  stand  close  at  your  side  ?  " 

"  O  it's  three  babes,"  he  says,  "  Marjorie, 
That  these  three  maidens  had." 

"  What  three  things  are  these,  sweet  William, 

That  lie  close  at  thy  feet?  " 
"  O  it's  three  hell-hounds,  Marjorie, 

That's  waiting  my  soul  to  keep." 

And  she  took  up  her  white,  white  hand, 
And  struck  him  on  the  breast; 

Saying,  "  Have  here  again  thy  faith  and  troth, 
And  I  wish  your  soul  good  rest." 


CLERK  SAUNDERS 

Clerk  Saunders  and  may  Margaret 
Walked  ower  yon  garden  green; 

And  deep  and  heavy  was  the  love 
That  fell  thir  twa  between. 

"A  bed,  a  bed,"  Clerk  Saunders  said, 
"  A  bed  for  you  and  me !  " 

"  Fye  na,  fye  na,"  said  may  Margaret, 
"Till  anes  we  married  be!" 


Clerk  Saunders  22$ 

"  Then  I'll  take  the  sword  frae  my  scabbard 

And  slowly  lift  the  pin; 
And  you  may  swear,  and  save  your  aith, 

Ye  ne'er  let  Clerk  Saunders  in. 

"  Take  your  napkin  in  your  hand, 

Tie  up  your  bonnie  een, 
And  you  may  swear  and  save  your  aith, 

Ye  saw  me  na  since  yestreen." 

It  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 

When  they  asleep  were  laid, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  red: 

When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  bright: 
They  said,  "  We  hae  but  one  sister, 

And  behold  her  lying  with  a  knight!  " 

Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
"  We  will  awa'  and  let  them  be." 

And  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
"  His  father  has  nae  mair  but  he." 

And  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 
"  I  wot  that  they  are  lovers  dear." 

And  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 

"  They  hae  been  in  love  this  mony  a  year." 

Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 

"  It  were  great  sin  true  love  to  twain," 

And  out  and  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 

"  It  were  shame  to  slay  a  sleeping  man." 


226  The  Haunted  Hour 

Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them, 

And  never  a  word  spake  he; 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright  brown  brand 

Out  through  Clerk  Saunders'  fair  bodye. 

Clerk   Saunders   he   started,    and    Margaret   she 
turned, 

Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay; 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 

That  was  atween  thir  twae. 

And  they  lay  still  and  sleepit  sound 

Until  the  day  began  to  daw ; 
And  kindly  she  to  him  did  say, 

"  It  is  time,  true  love,  you  were  awa'." 

But  he  lay  still  and  sleepit  sound, 
Albeit  the  sun  began  to  sheen; 

She  looked  between  her  and  the  wa', 
And  dull  and  drowsie  were  his  een. 

Then  in  and  came  her  father  dear; 

Said,  "Let  a'  your  mourning  be; 
I'll  carry  the  dead  corpse  to  the  clay, 

And  I'll  come  back  and  comfort  thee." 

"  Comfort  weel  your  seven  sons, 
For  comforted  I  will  never  be: 

I  trow  'twas  neither  knave  nor  loon 

Was  in  the  bower  last  night  wi'  me." 

The  clinking  bell  gaed  through  the  town, 
And  carried  the  dead  corpse  to  the  clay. 

Young  Saunders  stood  at  may  Margaret's  window, 
I  wot,  an  hour  before  the  day. 


Clerk  Sounders  22^ 

"Are  ye  sleeping,  Margaret?"  he  says, 
"Or  are  you  waking  presentlie? 

Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 
True  love,  as  I  gied  them  to  thee." 

"  Your  faith  and  troth  ye  sail  never  get, 
Nor  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 

Until  ye  come  within  my  bower, 
And  kiss  me  cheek  and  chin." 

"  My  mouth  it  is  full  cold,  Margaret, 
It  has  the  smell  now  of  the  ground; 

And  if  I  may  kiss  thy  comely  mouth, 
Thy  days  will  soon  be  at  an  end. 

"  O,  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day. 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

And  let  me  fare  me  on  my  way." 

"  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou  sail  na  get, 
And  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 

Until  ye  tell  wha'  comes  o'  women, 

Wot  ye,  who  die  in  strong  traivelling?  " 

"  Their  beds  are  made  in  the  heavens  high, 
Down  at  the  foot  of  our  good  Lord's  knee, 

Weel  set  about  wi'  gillyflowers; 

I  wot,  sweet  company  for  to  see. 

"  O,  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day; 
The  psalms  of  heaven  will  soon  be  sung, 

And  I,  ere  now,  will  be  missed  away." 


228  The  Haunted  Hour 

Then  she  has  taken  a  crissom  wand, 

And  she  has  stroken  her  troth  thereon ; 

She  has  given  it  him  out  at  the  shot-window, 
Wi'  mony  a  sad  sigh  and  heavy  groan. 

"  I  thank  ye,  Marg'ret;  I  thank  ye,  Marg'ret; 

Ever  I  thank  ye  heartilie; 
But  gin  I  were  living,  as  I  am  dead, 

I'd  keep  my  faith  and  troth  with  thee." 

It's  hosen  and  shoon,  and  gown  alone, 

She  climbed  the  wall,  and  followed  him, 

Until  she  came  to  the  green  forest, 
And  there  she  lost  the  sight  o'  him. 

"  Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders? 

Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet? 
Is  there  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders? 

Where  fain,  fain,  I  wad  sleep?" 

"  There's  nae  room  at  my  head,  Marg'ret, 
There's  nae  room  at  my  feet; 

My  bed  it  is  fu'  lowly  now, 

Amang  the  hungry  worms  I  sleep. 

"  Cauld  mould  is  my  covering  now, 

But  and  my  winding-sheet; 
The  dew  it  fall  nae  sooner  down 

Then  my  resting  place  is  weet." 

Then  up  and  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 
Then  up  and  crew  the  gray; 

"  'Tis  time,  'tis  time,  my  dear  Marg'ret, 
That  you  were  going  away. 


The  Wife  of  Ushers  Well  229 

"  And  fair  Marg'ret,  and  rare  Marg'ret, 

And  Marg'ret,  o'  veritie, 
Gin  e'er  ye  love  another  man, 

Ne'er  love  him  as  ye  did  me." 


THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 
And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 

She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  cam'  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 
A  week  but  barely  three, 

When  word  cam'  to  the  carline  wife 
That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

"  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 
Nor  fish  be  in  the  flood, 

Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 
In  earthly  flesh  and  blood !  " 

It  fell  about  the   Martinmas, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 

The  carline  wife's  three  sons  cam'  hame, 
And  their  hats  were  o'  the  birk. 


23O  The  Haunted  Hour 

If  neither  grew  in  shye  nor  ditch 
Nor  yet  in  any  small  shugh; 

But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

"  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens ! 

Bring  water  from  the  well! 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night, 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well." 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 
She's  made  it  large  and  wide; 

And  she's  ta'en  her  mantle  round  about, 
Sat  down  at  the  bedside. 

Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 
'  'Tis  time  we  were  away. 

"  The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 
The  channerin'  worm  doth  chide; 

Gin  we  be  miss'd  out  o'  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide." 

"  Lie  still,  lie  still  but  a  little  wee  while, 

Lie  still  but  if  we  may; 
Gin  my  mother  should  miss  us  when  she  wakes, 

She'll  go  mad  ere  it  be  the  day. 

"Our  mother  has  nae  mair  but  us; 

See  where  she  leans  asleep; 
The  mantle  that  was  on  herself, 

She  has  happ'd  it  round  our  feet." 


A  Lyke-Wake  Dirge  231 

O  it's  they  have  ta'en  up  their  mother's  mantle, 

And  they've  hung  it  on  a  pin; 
"  O  lang  may  ye  hing,  my  mother's  mantle, 

Ere  ye  hap  us  again! 

"Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear! 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire!" 


A  LYKE-WAKE  DIRGE 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 

And  Christ e  receive  thy  saule, 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  passed, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Whinny-muir  thou  com'st  at  last; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  ne'er  gav'st  nane, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  whins  sail  prick  thee  to  the  bare  bane ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 


232  The  Haunted  Hour 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou  mayst  pass, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Brig  o'  Dread  thou  com'st  at  last; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Brig  o'  Dread  when  thou  may'st  pass, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Purgatory  Fire  thou  com'st  at  last; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  fire  sail  never  make  thee  shrink; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  meat  or  drink  thou  never  gav'st  nane, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  fire  will  burn  thee  to  the  bare  bane; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 


THE   END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


After  Death,  141 
All-Saints'  Eve,  3 
All-Souls,  3 
All-Souls'  Night,  9 
All-Souls'  Night,  16 
ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS,  128 
ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM,  4 
ARNOLD,  SIR  EDWIN,  169 
At  Home,  142 

BACON,  JOSEPHINE  DASKAM,  25 
Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge,  43 
Ballad  of  Hallowe'en,  7 
Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot,  The, 

205 
Ballad  of  the  Buried   Sword, 

39 

Banshee,  The,  183 
BARHAM,  RICHARD  HARRIS,  80, 

87 

Beleaguered  City,  The,  122 
Betrayal,   151 
Blockhouse  on  the  Hill,  The, 

49 

Blue  Closet,  The,  163 
BRANCH,  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD,  29 
BUCHANAN,  ROBERT,  192,  205 
BYRON,  MAY,  74 

Cape  Horn  Gospel,  79 
CARLIN,  FRANCIS,  42,  43 
CAWEIN,  MADISON,  135  ' 
CHESSON,  NORA  HOPPER,  xiv 
Child,  The,  28 
Child  Alone,  The,  27 
Clerk  Saunders,  224 
CONE,  HELEN  GRAY,  49 
CORTISSOZ,  ELLEN  M.  H.,  14 


Dave  Lilly,  112 

Dead   Coach,  The,  175 

Dead  Mother,  192 

Deid  Folks'  Ferry,  176 

DE  LA  MARE,  WALTER,  49,  119, 

13i,   »55 

DOB  ELL,  SYDNEY,  178 
Drake's  Drum,  41 
Dream,  A,  4 
DRISCOLL,  LOUISE,  132 

EASTER,  MARGUERITE  ELIZA- 
BETH, 33 

EATON,  ARTHUR  WENTWORTH 
HAMILTON,  63 

Eve  of  St.  John,  The,  212 

Far-Away   Country,  The,  xiv 
Fair   Margaret's   Misfortunes, 

220 

Featherstone's  Doom,  73 
Fetch,   The,   179 
Fireflies,   132 

Flying  Dutchman,  The,  61 
Flying  Dutchman  of  Tappan 

Zee,  68 

Fog  Wraiths,  76 
Folk  of  the  Air,  The,  199 
Forgotten    Soul,  The,   8 
FRENEAU,  PHILIP,  44 

GARRISON,  THEODOSIA,  6,  7,  24, 

28,  137,  187 
Ghost,  The,  107 
Ghost,   The,    155 
Ghosts,  135 

Ghosts  of  the  Argonne,  56 
Ghost's  Petition,  The,  166 
GILLINGTON,  ALICE  E.,  185 


235 


236 


Index 


Grey  Ghost,  The,  42 
GUITERMAN,  ARTHUR,  68,  m 

Hallows'    E'en,    13 
HARTE,  BRET,  124 
Haunted,  130 
Haunted,  134 
Haunted,  144 
Haunted,    153 
Haunted  Houses,  120 
HAWKER,  ROBERT  STEPHEN,  73, 

iSS 

He  and   She,   169 
Highwayman,  The,  157 
HOOD,  THOMAS,   84,   103,  107, 

109 

HOUSMAN,  A.  E.,  152 
HOWELLS,  MILDRED,  76 
HUMPHREYS,  LOUISA,  16 

Indian  Burying  Ground,  The, 

44 

INGELOW,  JEAN,  149 
Ingoldsby  Penance,  87 
IRVING,  MINNA,  143 

Janet's  Tryst,   10 

Keith  of  Ravelston,  178 
KENDALL,  MAY,  126 
KILMER,  ALINE,  151 
KILMER,  JOYCE,  70,  112,  1x4 
KINGSLEY,  CHARLES,  65 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD,  40 

Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
The,  66 

Legend,  A,  126 

Legend  of  Hamilton  Tighe,  80 

LELAND,  CHARLES  GODFREY,  61 

LETTS,  WINIFRED  M.,  13 

Listeners,  119 

Little  Dead   Child,  The,  25 

Little  Ghost,  The,  22 

Little  Ghost,  The,  133 

Little  Green  Orchard,  The, 
131 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADS- 
WORTH,  6l,  I2O,  122,  189 


Looking-glass,  The,  40 
LOWELL,  AMY,  130 
Luke  Havergal,  156 
Lyke-Wake  Dirge,  A,  231 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE,  10 
MARQUIS,  DON,  144 
Martin,  114 
Mary  Shepherdess,  21 
Mary's  Ghost,  109 
MASEFIELD,  JOHN,  79 
Mawgan  of  Melhuach,  188 
Midnight  Visitor,  A,  128 
MILLAY,    EDNA    ST.    VINCENT, 

133 

MITCHELL,  RUTH  COMFORT,  57 
MOORE,  THOMAS,  66 
MORRIS,  WILLIAM,  163 
Mother's  Ghost,  The,  189 
My  Laddie's  Hounds,  33 

Neighbors,  The,  6 
NEWBOLT,  HENRY,  41 
Newport  Romance,  A,  124 
Night   at  Gettysburg,  51 
November  Eleventh,  57 
NOYES,  ALFRED,  157 

Old  House,  The,  35 
On  Kingston  Bridge,  14 
One  Out-of-doors,  149 
Open  Door,  The,  32 

Passer-by,   141 

Phantom  Light  of  the  Baie  des 

Chaleurs,  The,  63 
Phantom  Ship,  The,  61 
PIATT,  SARAH,  149 
PICKTHALL,    MARJORIE    L.    C., 

21 

Pompey's  Ghost,  103 
Priest's  Brother,  The,  203 

QUILLER-COUCH,     ARTHUR     T., 
»54 

RAMSAY,  A.  MARGARET,  201 
Reconciliation,  The,  201 


Index 


237 


REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH,  j 

Return,  The,   143 

RHYS,  ERNEST,  39 

RICE,  GRANTLAND,  56 

Riders,  The,  52 

ROBINSON,    EDWIN   ARLINGTON, 

156 

Room's  Width,   144 
ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA,  141,  142, 

166 

Sailing  Beyond  Seas,  149 
Sands  of  Dee,  The,  65 

SCHAUFFLER,     ROBERT     HAVEN, 

S3 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER,  212 

Sea  Ghosts,  74 

SEITZ,  DON  C.,  51 

Seven  Whistlers,  185 

SHORTER,  DORA  SIGERSON,  9, 
179,  183,  203 

Song  of  Soldiers,  The,  49 

STUART,  G.  B.,  153 

Such  Are  the  Souls  in  Purga- 
tory, 29 


Superstitious  Ghost,  The,  nz 
Supper  Superstition,  84 
Sweet  William's  Ghost,  222 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M.,  141 
Three  Ghosts,  The,  137 
True  Lover,  The,  152 
Two  Brothers,  24 
TYNAN,  KATHERINE,  3,  22,  35, 

52,  i75 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis,  134 
Victor,  The,  187 

WARD,      ELIZABETH      STUART 

PHELPS,  144 

WATSON,      ROSAMUND      MAR- 
RIOTT, 27,  32,  176 
White  Comrade,  The,  53 
White  Ships  and  the  Red,  70 
White  Moth,  The,  154 
WIDDEMER,  MARGARET,  8 
Wife  of   Usher's   Well,   The, 
229 

YEATS,  WILLIAM  BUTLER,  199 


P,  UBRAHY 
.   OF  CAUFQRUMf; 


A     000047811 


